


Polis 433

by nutalexfanfic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: And in love with Clarke's baby, Clarke is a stubborn fool, Ellie Griffin is an adorable little shit, F/F, Firefighter!Lexa, Lexa is so gay for Clarke, Light mention of history of abuse, Slow Burn, The Firefighter AU, diaper butt, future discussions of history of abuse, history of abuse is emotional/mental/lightly physical such as manhandeling, let's be real this is really the love story of Lexa and Ellie, light mention of ptsd, singlemom!Clarke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 19:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 73,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12588960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutalexfanfic/pseuds/nutalexfanfic
Summary: Six months after Clarke moves back to her tiny hometown to raise her two-year old toddler around what family she has left, she expects to do just that, and only that. She has two jobs; full time nurse, and full time single-mother. There's no time for anything else. Not even for the pretty firefighter who starts showing up unannounced at her home, looking for fires Clarke swears are a figment of everyone's imagination. That, or a faulty security panel with a direct emergency call button to the local fire station.





	1. Sound the Alarm

**Author's Note:**

> To all of you loyal ffau followers, I'm so excited to be able to share this first chapter with you. To any newcomers, welcome! I hope you enjoy the ride.

 

_-Go grocery shopping_

_-Reschedule dinner with mom_

_-Send Octavia’s brother a referral for an AT_

_-Cancel appointment with HVAC specialist_

_-Call Polis United about shitty internet_

_-Take Ellie in for possible gluten allergy?_

_-Sign Ellie’s zoo fieldtrip note_

_-Apply to be a chaperone for children’s museum fieldtrip in August_

_-Ask Carol for July 13 th off for Ellie’s dance recital_

_-Do the dishes_

_-Paint Ellie’s wall mural_

_-Fix the kitchen cupboard hinge_

_-Clean the gutters_

_-Mow the lawn_

_-Fix the fence_

_-Get oil changed_

_-Get rattling sound in engine checked by a mechanic_

_-Find a mechanic_

* * *

There is a special sort of peacefulness to the early morning that exists at no other time of day. The slant of the eastern sun through the curtains, the songs of the eager little finches outside the window, the wind chimes in the breeze; Clarke loves it all as she lies in bed, staving off the oncoming day as best she can. Even the swish of her hair against the pillow when she turns to look at the clock feels wonderfully self-indulgent in the quiet stillness. In fifteen minutes, her alarm will go off and the magic will be lost in the banality of her morning routine, but until then, she revels in all of the luxury the early day has to offer.

 

She lets herself doze off in thought, never sure how long it lasts as time seems to suspend itself in between shopping lists, to-do items, morning commute times, and patients waiting for her at the hospital. But at the distinctive sound of tiny, bare feet padding down the hardwood floor of the hallway, all thoughts but one disappear. A smile creeps to her face as she waits, eyes closed in the fake sleep she knows will draw out the giggles that she loves –even sweeter than the singing finches and clinking wind chimes.

 

She schools her expression at the creak of the door as a small hand pushes it open in timid curiosity. Despite the beauty of the calm—especially in all its rarity—this, by far, is Clarke’s favorite part. The shuffle of small feet across the carpet, the crinkle of a diaper trapped between chubby thighs, the little voice still hoarse from sleep that calls her name in a hopeful whisper; that is Clarke’s world.

 

The mother lays silently as the bed dips and uncoordinated hands find their way under ribs, on breasts, mashed into cheeks, and trapping hair as the little body makes its way to its final destination. Ever so patiently, Clarke waits and listens, holding back a smile as she feels warm breath on her face and hears the whisper of her name growing incessant the longer the game goes on.

 

She smells like sweet dreams, warm sheets and lavender, and it makes Clarke break. Two tiny hands find their way to the corners of a quickly growing smile, tugging on cheeks and giggling now that the jig is up.

 

“Mommy!”

Clarke’s eyes flutter open and she’s inundated by so much all at once, it makes her chuckle. Big, blue eyes stare down at her in wide anticipation, the slanting sun casts a halo around her baby as the chimes clink and the birds sing enthusiastically with all the new energy in the waking house. Clarke is in love with all of it.

 

“ _Mommy!”_

“Hello, Baby.”  

 

“Up!”

 

Clarke stretches back into the pillows, smiling at the complaints it draws from the toddler on her chest, ever restless, ever eager to greet the day. “You don’t want to snuggle with Mommy first?”

 

The magic word puts a stall on the morning antics, and at once Clarke is rewarded with tiny little arms wrapping themselves around her, a cold little nose pressing into her throat. To the nurse with a passion for art, the little girl in her arms is by far her greatest masterpiece. She knows every inch of the smooth back under one hand, the small swell of the diaper butt under the other. She knows the soft, silk of her golden-white hair strand by strand. The tiny hands and the tiny feet are imprinted into her memory like concrete molds. She knows the lilt of her voice, the cadence of her moods, the types of her cries. The blue-grey of her eyes is like looking in a mirror. This mother knows her child as if she made her all herself, and for all intents and purposes, she did.

 

If it were up to her, Clarke would stay like this forever; where long work shifts, grueling emergencies, long childcare days, and the stress of it all can’t touch them. Already, the growth spurt she’s recently noticed in those chubby little legs makes Clarke long for the time when the days were shorter and the time together longer, when milestones weren’t missed in logged overtime and emergency pick-up shifts.

 

“You have to stop growing, Ellie,” she whispers into the warm hair beneath her chin. With one last squeeze and a kiss to the little head rising with her every breath, she watches the clock with familiar resentment as time wins the battle, and the alarm ushers in the exhausting inevitability of the day.

 

//

 

“You look absolutely dreadful, Nurse Jackie.”

 

Not uncommon a greeting from her lovely best friend, Clarke doesn’t bother with a response as she hovers over the computer at the nurse’s station, cursing the new residents who seemed to grow more and more incompetent as the years went on.

 

“Ellie keep you up again?”

 

“No.”

 

“Did someone _else_ keep you up?”

  
Clarke doesn’t have to look up to know that Octavia is waggling her eyebrows and sending her a smirk she wishes that she wouldn’t.

 

“ _No._ I’m trying to figure out how the hell Dr. Rosen’s hysterectomy ended up in OR 3 at the same time as Dr. Morrison’s bi-lateral leg amputation. And why OR 4 is suddenly booked every hour until Christmas.”

 

“Sounds like a computer glitch.”

 

“More like a chief resident glitch.” Clarke rubs her face and sits back in her chair, finally looking up at the EMT hovering around her desk. “What’s up? What do you need?”

 

“I can’t say hi to my favorite nurse and mother to my goddaughter without needing something?”

 

“I saw you this morning.”

 

“I was riding on top of a car crash victim with my hands in his chest.”

 

“Fair.”

 

“I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re doing okay. You look exhausted.”

 

“Who’s exhausted?” Despite loving her to death, the sound of Raven Reyes’ voice in a hospital always would make anyone cringe. Having a bomb technician show up unannounced at your place of work tends to unintentionally grate on the nerves.

 

“What are you doing here?” Clarke and Octavia say in unison, warranting a faux expression of indignant hurt from the third of their trio.  

 

“Aw, I’m great guys. Thanks for asking. How are you?” Off Clarke’s uneasy disposition, Raven rolls her eyes and drums at the table. “Lighten up! Don’t you think if I was here on the job I would be doing anything else other than standing here for a casual chat?”

 

“Raven, the last time you were here for work, you talked to me for five minutes about your most recent date before I even knew there was a bomb threat.”

 

“….Touche. _However,_ the threat had been determined a non-threat before I even made it up to your floor, so to be fair, there was no real emergency.”

 

“That still begs the question, moron—“ Octavia flicks the technician on the cheek, “—why are you here?”

 

Affronted, Raven walks around behind Clarke’s desk, completely ignoring nurse’s admittedly lazy protests, and grabs a sucker from the jar Clarke keeps stocked. “For your information, I’m here because I love you guys, and wanted to say hi.” She pops the bright green sucker in her mouth and beams.

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“I was in the neighborhood.”

 

“Horseshit.”

 

“I wanted to ask you a favor.”

  
“Pigshit. If you wanted a favor, you would’ve brought me muffins.”

 

“Okay, captain buzzkill. I’m having a fling with the sexy radiologist upstairs.”

 

“Phil?!”

 

“God no,” Raven grimaces, chucking the sucker now that she’s bored with it. “He’s like eighty-five and a sexual harassment law suit waiting to happen.”

 

“Jerry, then.”

 

“Yup. Tall, dark, and rich as hell. Just how I like them.”

 

“You don’t like men,” Octavia snorts, shaking her head.

 

“I do when they’re rich.”

 

“Don’t we all?”

 

Clarke grins and kicks her feet up for a brief moment before deciding she’s too old and responsible for such lackadaisical work environment displays.

 

“O’s right though, Clarke. You look tired.”

 

“I have a two-year-old. Of course I’m tired.”  

 

“Have you finished unpacking?”

 

Clarke shakes her head, resigned to the fact that if she hasn’t finished packing by now, six months after her move, she’d never finish. Besides, on top of a box is as good a place as any to have breakfast, and Ellie had come to love the setup.

 

“We should have another unpacking party. Get the last of it out of your hair before Abby has another aneurism about it.”

 

The idea, in theory, is nice. A quiet dinner with people to preoccupy the toddler, built-in babysitting while boxes are unpacked, the heavy lifting divided by three. But Clarke knows that when the four of them convene under the same roof, nothing resembling work ever gets done. It just means more food to be bought and prepared, more dishes to be done, and an exhausted mother with somehow more boxes to be dealt with than she started with.

 

“Maybe next week,” she deflects. She knows they’re staring at her skeptically, so she decides that staring at her computer screen may actually end up solving her problems after all.

 

//

 

They don’t say nurses are the heart of the hospital for nothing. Well, maybe they don’t say that _in particular_ , but they might as well. Never in her life would Clarke have assumed that the bodily projectiles from her infant _wouldn’t_ be the last bodily fluids to cover her from head to toe on any given day. But three surgeries, five code blues and an outbreak of stomach flu in the children’s ward later, had her sorely proved wrong as she stands in the middle of the nurse’s locker room covered in vomit.

 

The end of spring is never a good season for the hospital. The staffing grows questionably thin as people take off early for their vacations, citizens grow reckless as they try to catch the last of the snow in the mountains that’s two months too melted to ski on, or bring out their boats onto water that’s still too choppy and cold from the winter in hopes of elongating their summer, and of course viruses and flues abound with the start of summer camps. As the temperatures rise, apparently so too does the stupidity of the general public, and Clarke feels it in every single hour of her ten hour shifts.

 

“Tough day, Doc?”

 

Clarke catches sight of Nylah out of the corner of her eye, but even for a pretty face like hers, it’s not enough to drum up the energy needed to look away from the mirror she’s zombified in front of. “You have to stop calling me that,” she mutters, grimacing at a new chunk she notices near her ponytail.

 

“Why? You’re the only nurse here who went to med school…and basically completed it. You should be a doctor.”

 

“That makes me your boss, not a doctor. And I don’t want to be a doctor.”

 

Nylah appears behind her and they smile at each other through the mirror. “You sure?” Nylah picks something out of Clarke’s hair and gags as she flicks her hand over a nearby trashcan. “Get in a fight with a homeless guy?”

 

“There’s gastroenteritis going around the kids. I was tying a shoe.”

 

“Gross. Exactly why I’d never want to be a peds nurse.”

 

“I like the kids. Usually.”

 

“You’re a good person,” Nylah laughs, stepping away from the vomit-covered nurse. “Speaking of. How’s Ellie?”

 

For the first time all day, a genuine smile pops onto Clarke’s face and she breathes a little easier for a moment, at least until the smell of someone’s half-digested lunch fills her senses. “She’s great.”

 

“Back to sleeping through the night?”

 

“Mhm. Nightmare crisis averted. Raven will be indebted to me for a _long_ time.”

 

They both chuckle as Clarke peels out of her scrubs, letting them unceremoniously hit the floor. Exhaustion clings to her bones as she wanders over to her locker in search of anything that smells remotely like soap.

 

“Hey, Clarke?”

 

Clarke inhales sharply when she turns around and Nylah is slightly too close. The fear that flutters through her chest for a split second is a vestigial habit, as are the steps she takes to discreetly put distance between them. She’s not proud of it, but she’s learned to live with it as one does. She smiles, also a habit, and clears her throat. “Yes?” But she hardly has to ask, she can see it in Nylah’s eyes, and it makes her hate everything about the convenience of the bar next door and its stupid decisions in liquid form.

 

“You know, I had a great time with you last...when was it? Last month?” Nylah laughs, giving Clarke that same smile that’d caused her to lose her mind in the first place.

 

“Nylah—”

 

“I know. I know, you’re not ready for anything. But who says it has to be anything serious? We had fun, right?”

 

“We did. But, that’s kind of the problem,” Clarke says, softly. “Any free time that I have needs to be spent on my child and building her a comfortable, happy life. I don’t have time for—”

 

“Fun?”

 

“Anything casual.”

 

“Ah,” Nylah chuckles. “But you also don’t want serious?”

 

“It’s... a delicate situation.”

 

Nylah nods, and the mother in Clarke wants to soothe away the minutely discernible frown, but her feet hurt, and she smells, and she’s getting a little too old, and definitely too tired, for this. “Can we maybe talk about this after I’ve showered? The only thing I can really think about right now is that there’s vomit in my hair.” That gets a smile out of Nylah, and Clarke relaxes. It’s a shame, really. Nylah is beautiful, and kind, and a damn good nurse. But she’s not, and Clarke suspects may never be, mother material. Which is all that really matters to her these days when she’s looking. Not that she’s looking. In fact it’s so far from her mind that it’s more of an annoyance than it is anything else. To her credit, Nylah is gone by the time Clarke gets out of the shower.

 

//

 

If mornings are Clarke’s calm sanctuary moments, evenings are anything but. In their sleepy little town of 1200 people, one would think that rush hour is a cakewalk. Which of course fails to account for the douchebags in their red Camaros—likely coming from the docks— and the flood of exhausted, near-death surgeons without enough energy to look both ways at stop signs, let alone use their blinker before changing lanes. Not to mention the intersection down the road from the hospital that houses the police station _and_ the fire station, both of which dismiss the majority of their people at 5pm, creating the world’s worst back ups since laxatives.

 

She’s often the last parent to arrive at daycare at the end of the day, and she’s gotten used to the childcare staff’s glares. Ellie’s sad little face in the window as she waits for Clarke to show, however, is more heartbreaking each and every time it happens. She curses the kidney stones that’d kept her late this time, and runs into the center as quickly as she can without causing a commotion.

 

“It’s 6:05, Ms. Griffin.”

 

Clarke scoops Ellie into her arms after an exuberant reunion, and holds her baby close, despite the numerous bags she’s now trying to juggle. “I’m aware of that, Liv. I had a patient.”

 

The monitor doesn’t bother hiding her distain for Clarke’s _clear lack of priorities_ (as she’d been told once...and subsequently reduced to tears) before shaking her head and ushering the little family out. Ellie, bless her little heart, is not quite so easily deterred. She’s an unstoppable chatterbox the moment she’s strapped into her car seat, and it does wonders in the moment to distract Clarke from the crippling guilt of single-motherhood.  

 

She makes up for it with Ellie’s favorite meal. She burnt her thumb, twice, and the smoke detector went off while she was rescuing Ellie from being stuck under the couch, but the happy little sounds her baby makes as she inhales the spaghetti, makes it worth it. Having yet to stop chattering on, Clarke listens with a smile as Ellie recounts her day in her broken, toddler logic filled with words Clarke still can’t quite understand. But even with the botched pronunciations, Ellie’s vocabulary seems to grow almost every day. It’s bittersweet, and Clarke finds herself reaching out just to touch her, to make sure that she’s not growing up too fast. To make sure that she’s still the same baby as the one she held against her chest that morning.

 

The worry plagues her all the way through bath and story time. It flutters in her chest and nags at her thoughts as she walks down the stairs, flipping lights off in her wake.

 

Balance is what she tells her patients to strive for all of the time. Balanced sleep, a balanced diet, balanced activities, balanced interests. It’s the key to a healthy life, and yet with every passing year, Clarke finds herself having less and less of it in her own life. The move had certainly helped. Trying to raise an infant in New York City with about one friend in the world was a feat even too steep for someone as stubborn as Clarke. But even here, as Ellie grew older, and Clarke more and more exhausted, that balanced lifestyle began to feel like something she’d dreamed up once.

 

She’s half asleep by the time she gets to the kitchen. There are still dishes in the sink, and tomato sauce on the stove top, but the thought of staying up any longer makes her want to cry. She’s going to need at least another two showers before she sleeps to stop smelling the vomit, and the number of emails she still needs to send—

 

Clarke actually groans as she locks up the doors to the backyard. She flips off the kitchen lights, then the pendant over the dining table. She’s about to head back upstairs when she remembers the new security panel by the door that she swears doesn’t actually work. Wells had insisted, and so she’d finally let him install it last week. It’s more complicated than it needs to be, Clarke is sure of it. There’s the alarm code she can hardly remember, the color-coded buttons for the different emergency responders which she thinks she might barely know, there’s even a fingerprint reader option for setting and deactivating the advanced settings. With some fiddling and a significant amount of whispered expletives, Clarke wraps up the house for the night, and can hardly remembering getting into bed when she wakes the next morning.

 

And so it all begins again.

 

* * *

 

When Clarke gets her first day off in four months, she can hardly believe it. She knows she’s a mother when the first thing she does is call her baby in sick to daycare. She’d be damned if she wasn’t going to spend her entire free day with her little girl. 

 

“Just you me?!”

 

Clarke chuckles at the sheer excitement emanating out of Ellie as they eat their breakfast atop two boxes Clarke is pretty sure contain her finer china-- graduation gift from an aunt she barely knows. “Just you and me, kid. What do you want to do?”

 

It doesn’t take long to end up outside. It takes even less for them both to end up covered in cold hose water. The giggling and chasing goes on for at least an hour until some quality PB&J sandwiches put a momentary stop to the activities. But Ellie has a one track mind when it comes to fun, a tenacity Clarke _usually_ admires, and thus they are back to the water works within minutes of the dishes being tossed into the sink.

 

With hours of fun under the belt, naked all except for a waterlogged diaper, Ellie eventually flops down next to her sunbathing mother, and crawls into her lap. Clarke smiles at the toddler having finally worn herself out, and cradles her against her chest, more than happy for the company. She’s about halfway through updating her to-do list when she realizes Ellie is asleep.

 

_-Go grocery shopping_

_-Reschedule dinner with mom_

_-Send Octavia’s brother a referral for an AT_

_-Cancel appointment with HVAC specialist_

_-Call Polis United about shitty internet_

_-Take Ellie in for possible gluten allergy?_

_-Sign Ellie’s zoo fieldtrip note_

_-Apply to be a chaperone for next month’s children’s museum fieldtrip_

_-Ask Carol for July 13 th off for Ellie’s dance recital_

_-Do the dishes_

_-Paint Ellie’s wall mural_

_-Fix the kitchen cupboard hinge_

_-Email Dr. Warren about the scheduling app glitch_

_-Get oil changed_

_-Get rattling sound in engine checked by a mechanic_

_-Find a mechanic_

_-Order new diapers. Look for water resistant kind._

 

Too tired to lug both of them upstairs, Clarke tucks Ellie in for a nap on the couch while she picks up the random toys strewn around the house. Ellie had even managed to get her toys in the guest room, which of course makes Clarke chuckle. At one point she’d thought that maybe Raven might move into it when they’d left New York together. When an apartment opened up down the street, Clarke didn’t blame her for taking it. The terrible twos were no joke, even in her relative angel of a toddler. She feels the loneliness of the relatively big house during times like these, though. When the toddler is down, and the house is silent, Clarke finds she’s somewhat unsure of what to do with herself.

 

A shower is what she comes up with. It lasts longer than she’d intended, having forgot that the water pressure was better on the bottom floor. And the _heat._ The heavier Ellie got, the tighter Clarke’s shoulders became, and there was perhaps nothing more appealing to a mother of a squirmy toddler, than a long, hot shower.  She’s about half-dressed when the funny feeling that’d been tickling her senses since getting out finally bursts into the foreground. In less than a second, Clarke is running into the living room in search of Ellie, then smoke, then flames. She finds the first, but none of the second or third, which endlessly confuses her as she catches glimpses of the red fire truck in her driveway as she dashes through the house.

 

As only a mother can, Clarke runs through about a million possibilities in her head as she checks the fire place, stove, oven and various parts of Ellie’s body for any explanation of the commotion in her front yard. Finding nothing, she returns to the front of the house, swinging open the door in time to see a team of firefighters jumping out of their truck.

 

“Are you Clarke Griffin?” 

 

A tall, angry looking man approaches the porch, eyes sweeping behind her, presumably at the house… which is most definitely not on fire.

 

“I am,” is all she can muster in her confusion.

 

“Is this your house?”

 

“It is.”

 

“Are you aware that an emergency call was placed from this location, alerting the station to a possible fire emergency?”

 

“I—”

 

“Is there a fire that you are aware of?”

 

“No, I have no idea--”

 

“Is there any other emergency you are reporting?”

 

“Jesus Christ, Roan, let the woman talk.”

 

A slightly smaller figure appears from behind the giant man on her porch, and sticks out her hand. Dazed, Clarke shakes it with little attention.

 

“Hi, ma’am. I’m Captain Woods over at station 433, right down the street. Do you have an Arkadia Security Panel in your house, or anything of the like?”

 

Looking from the baby in her arms to the men on her front law to the woman standing next to the angry giant, Clarke stutters and fumbles over her words until Ellie thrusts her little face into Clarke’s neck and bursts into loud tears, likely at the confusion and Clarke’s obvious stress.

 

“Ma’am, would you mind if we take a look inside?”

 

Happy to let the firefighters take the wheel, Clarke nods and steps back. She does her best to soothe her toddler as the strangers go through her house checking for gas leaks, faulty wires, and who knows what else, but with the unfamiliar people and the strange commotion, Ellie is inconsolable. She’s still screaming when the team of abnormally large people file back out of her house. The angry giant and the captain stop on the porch, doing their very best not to grimace at the screaming toddler, and for that Clarke finds herself feeling something akin to grateful.

 

Clicking her pen closed on her clipboard, the captain smiles sympathetically at the mother, and for the briefest of moments, Clarke notes the pretty green color of her eyes, and the attractive rise of her cheekbones.

 

“We’ve concluded our inspection of your house, and there is no immediate fire danger. It could be that your security panel malfunctioned, or perhaps you accidentally bumped our red call button. We send reports to the security companies when things like this happen, so you don’t need to worry about contacting them. If it was a malfunction, they’ll get it fixed within twenty-four hours. Do you have any questions?”

 

Not that there is much of a stage for questions at this point with everyone’s ears ringing, Clarke shakes her head and nods along to whatever is being said about the conclusion of their inspection. She’s about ready to cry herself by the time the captain tears the form along the perforated line and hands it to Clarke’s barely free hand to sign. 

 

“By the way,” the captain adds, “you have a couple of exposed wires in your crawlspace. That’s something you’ll want to have someone come take a look at in the near future. It wouldn’t take more than a good gust of wind to get those to cross and spark.”

 

The headache is almost instantaneous as Clarke mentally adds another item to her to-do list.

 

_-Go grocery shopping_

_-Reschedule dinner with mom_

_-Send Octavia’s brother a referral for an AT_

_-Cancel appointment with HVAC specialist_

_-Call Polis United about shitty internet_

_-Take Ellie in for possible gluten allergy?_

_-Sign Ellie’s zoo fieldtrip note_

_-Apply to be a chaperone for next month’s children’s museum fieldtrip_

_-Ask Carol for July 13 th off for Ellie’s dance recital_

_-Do the dishes_

_-Paint Ellie’s wall mural_

_-Fix the kitchen cupboard hinge_

_-Email Dr. Warren about the scheduling app glitch_

_-Get oil changed_

_-Get rattling sound in engine checked by a mechanic_

_-Find a mechanic_

_-Order new diapers...look for water resistant kind_

_~~-Contact Arkadia Security about malfunctioning panel~~ _

_-Get exposed wires in crawlspace checked_

 

“Do you think she’d like to see the truck?”

 

Blinking, Clarke pulls herself out of her mental list and tries desperately to recall what the captain had said, embarrassed enough as it is. When she can't, she sighs. “I’m sorry?”

 

“Your daughter. Do you think it’d cheer her up to see the truck?”

 

Comically, before Clarke can answer, the crying lowers to a teary sniffle, and Ellie looks at her mother expectantly.

 

“I guess so,” Clarke says with a tired chuckle.

 

“May I?” The captain reaches out for Ellie, and as Clarke is opening her mouth to tell her that Ellie is quite shy, she is shocked to see her toddler reach out and easily settle into the firefighter’s arms.

 

Perplexed, Clarke follows close behind as the captain walks around the front of the truck and lifts them into the driver’s seat. Someone offers her help into the cab, but Clarke is content to watch from the driveway. In fact, she is so amazed by Ellie’s ease with the complete stranger that she couldn’t look away long enough to climb into the cab even if she’d wanted to.

 

The demonstration goes on for so long, Clarke worries that she might wake up the next morning to learn that the town had burned down because the local fire station was in her driveway. But the captain seems in no rush. With Ellie on her lap, reaching for all the knobs and dials, and the captain explaining each one, Clarke has a hard time telling who’s having more fun.  The siren sets Clarke’s teeth on edge at such a close distance, but Ellie seems positively enthralled every time her little toddler hands flip it on. Despite the sound, Clarke is endlessly grateful for the kind captain and her understanding of the situation. When Clarke gets Ellie back, the toddler is all smiles and giggles, with only the dried tear tracks on her pink little cheeks as evidence of the previous tantrum. Clarke doubts the captain realizes what an amazing thing it is to give away a screaming toddler and get her back completely content, but she’ll take it all the same.

 

She’s almost sad to see them and their effect on her little girl go as the truck pulls out of the driveway, the captain and a few of the guys waving to Ellie as they retreat. It makes her smile, and if she had a husband, or a wife, to help share the load of day to day activities, she thinks she may even be the kind of mom to send a card and baked goods to the station in thanks. For now, she sends them her own quick wave, and takes her happy toddler back inside.

 

* * *

 

The first time it happens, it's embarrassing. The second time, it’s mortifying.

 

She’s in the backyard in the hammock, rocking in the breeze while Ellie lays beside her looking at her picture book. It’s a cool Saturday morning, spring’s last hurrah before the full blast of summer heat sweeps through the town, no mercy in its path. With a light sweater on, it’s lovely, and Clarke finds herself calmer than she’s been in a while.  Which is why she startles so severely when her backdoor swings open and there in the doorframe is the captain with the eyes and cheekbones, and her motley crew.

 

“Ma’am?”

 

Clarke very nearly falls getting out of the hammock. Between the toddler, the toddler’s sippy cup (the contents of which is now mostly on Clarke’s sweater), the picture book, and Clarke’s tablet, there is not enough grace in the _world_ that would lend itself to a suave receipt of the strangers in her yard.

 

“What the f—” but she catches herself as she readjusts the weight of her baby on her hip. “Captain?”

 

“We received another call from your address. Are you in distress?”

 

Mutely, out of shock, Clarke shakes her head. She doesn’t laugh like the men behind the captain do when Ellie claps and shakes her head as well.

 

Obviously holding back a grin, the captain nods and proceeds to her clipboard. “You’re not reporting a fire?”

 

“No.”

 

“You or a member of your household is not in need of medical or emergency assistance?”

 

“Not that I’m aware of,” Clarke sighs.

 

With a twitch at the corner of her mouth, the captain hands over the clipboard for Clarke’s signature. If Clarke weren’t so confused and embarrassed, burying her face in her baby’s hair as soon as she hands the clipboard back, she would have noticed how stunning the captain’s smile was. Or perhaps she’d chosen to ignore it.

 

“When I saw the address, I figured it might be another glitch with your panel. These new systems are quite buggy the first year they’re installed, and yours looks pretty new. But protocol mandates we come check it out just in case.”

 

Clarke nods, face still half hidden. “I’m sorry about that.”

 

“No harm done. We’ll see you next week?”

 

“Sounds good,” Clarke murmurs without thinking, mind already preoccupied with the different ways she could hide herself away, never to be seen by the public again.

 

“No, that…that was a joke,” the captain laughs.  “We don’t want to see you again unless your house is on fire or you need an EMT.”

 

Redder then a fire truck has never been more apt a description as Clarke flushes harder than she did during the nights that once had her deemed, ‘Party Girl Griffin.’

 

“I’m…so sorry.”

 

The captain laughs again, and Clarke is _mostly_ too mortified to find it a lovely sound. “No worries—” she looks down at her clipboard, then back up and smiles, “—Ms. Griffin.”  

 

“It’s Clarke,” the mother squeaks, ready to fan herself as the blush continues to scorch its way up, down and around every visible inch of her skin.

 

“Lexa,” the captain says, and holds out her hand.

 

Before she can stop herself, Clarke is sticking out the hand holding Ellie’s book for the firefighter to shake. To Lexa’s credit, she does so with only the smallest of grins given at the embarrassed mother’s expense. Too mortified to speak, Clarke stands frozen in her yard until she hears the front door close behind the crew.

 

“Oh my _god,_ ” she groans, flopping down onto the hammock.

 

“Again!” Ellie shouts, totally entertained.

 

Clarke shakes her head, laughing despite herself. “That can _never_ happen again.”   

 

 


	2. Make the Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The outpouring of love from you guys has been awesome. It's really motivated me to stay on a schedule for updates, which is new for me. So thank you. I hope you like this chapter as much as the first, but if not, it's chill. You can always let me know what you're thinking.
> 
> TW: mention of PTSD  
> TW: mention of fear of assault or abuse  
> TW: possible history of abuse

There are good days and bad days to every week. There are more bad than good at the hospital, sure, but there are more good than bad from Ellie, her mother, her friends, even her house. The balance usually tips in Clarke’s favour in the grand scheme of things.

 

But there are times when it doesn’t. There are always those weeks when the good days seem to run from her with abandon while the bad sit at her feet, begging for attention. These are the days when there are pileups on the freeways, or fires in the warehouse district, or choppy waves at the docks. When daycare is closed unexpectedly because of a pinkeye breakout, and babysitters are too sparse to come by. When friends are tired and grumpy and mothers are busy. When Ellie is sick and uncomfortable, and not sleeping through the night. When Clarke is so tired she could scream, if only she had the energy.

 

She's told that the human body is not built to bare such exhaustion, but somehow, hers manages to get through the day, and then the next, and the one after that. But the days aren’t the hard part. It’s the quiet time in the middle of the night when it feels as if the entire world has fallen asleep without her. These are the nights she stays up reading, wiping at her cheeks and promising herself that it’s because her eyes are dry, and not because raising her child alone is the hardest thing she’s ever done. Too hard, sometimes.

 

But these days pass too. Like Spring into Summer, they slip away quietly until something entirely new and refreshing exists, like long days off spent at the park, and morning snuggles, and backyard water fights, and new ice cream flavours from the ice cream parlour smeared across little lips and dimples to die for. Weaved in among the good days and the bad, are those moments that outweigh it all.

 

She watches one play out before her eyes as she sits on the front porch, chin in her hands, smiling as Ellie jumps and twirls through the tall summer grass she’s been meaning to cut for weeks. The birds are loud today; their exuberance over the rare breeze apologizing for the scorching temperatures is abundant in their songs. A neighbour’s mower hums somewhere off down the street, a dog barks in the distance as sprinkles occasionally punctuate the air, and wind chimes beckon the breeze onward through the small neighborhood. It’s a summer symphony Clarke would play on repeat if she could

 

A siren enters the fray somewhere off in the adjacent neighbourhood, and Clarke smiles to herself. She seems to notice them more lately, thanks to her recent run-ins with the poor fire department down the road. It’s not entirely unwelcome, though. The sirens remind her of another lifetime, roaming the large city streets in search of warm coffee shops, her tiny one-bedroom apartment across the river, an adventure bigger than herself. It’s not a life she misses, necessarily, but it has a certain nostalgic draw to it that makes her smile from the comfort of her quiet, small-town front yard.

 

“Well, isn’t this a lovely day?” Abby comes through the front door with two glasses of lemonade and a sippy cup, and Clarke thinks that this is what summer days are all about. The warm crinkle to Abby’s smile, the cool condensation on the glass, her family laid out before her, safe and content; it wrings the exhaustion from Clarke’s bones and infuses her with another day, another week, another promise that she can do this.

 

Clarke turns to her mother, cheek resting on her drawn up knees, as Abby rubs her back and smiles.

 

“Doing okay?”

 

Clarke nods as Abby moves to the nape of her daughter’s neck and gives a gentle squeeze.

 

“You look tired.”

 

“I am,” Clarke says softly, still smiling.

 

“What’ve you got planned for this weekend?”

 

“Namely...cutting this grass.”

 

“Ellie seems to like it.”

 

“She likes it now. She’s going to cry about being itchy later, then refuse to get in the bath.”

 

“The terrible twos.”

 

Clarke nods as she watches Ellie continue to twirl and clap and entertain herself with endless energy and curiosity. “She’s so perfect, though.”

 

Abby hums, and the two matriarchs--one old hat, one fairly new-- entertain the lazy day for as long as it will let them.

 

Somehow it’s never long enough, though. Clarke blinks and the day is gone, dinner is over, there’s a new pile of dishes in the sink, and the baby monitor has finally gone quiet. Even on the best of days, Clarke has a complicated relationship with this time of night. It’s still and quiet, but unlike the morning, there’s a sense of impending end. All things left unfinished, unexperienced, unlived, fester in Clarke’s mind until she worries herself sick.

 

There just aren’t enough hours in the day, she thinks as she slips into bed. Her feet ache, her limbs are heavy, her eyelids heavier, and her body begs for sleep, but it won’t come until much later. There are still countless hours to be spent crafting grocery lists, making mental notes to write down doctor’s appointments and playdates, worrying about the things that were missed and the things yet to come. And of course there is always her nightly wrestle with her old friend Guilt which would demand to be had before sleep would finally take pity on her.

 

When she wakes in the morning--fifteen minutes before her alarm, straining to hear the sound of her baby’s bare feet on the hardwood--it’s almost as if she never slept at all.

 

//

 

The next morning, she's half-asleep on her hand when someone runs by her desk, patting it and calling for her to follow as they go. It’s only once she’s running through the NICU doors that she realizes it’s her mother white coat she’s been following.

 

“We’ve got busses full of children coming in after a fire at a daycare. All ages. I need you on deck. Let’s get--”

 

But Clarke doesn’t hear the rest. Her mind regurgitates “fire at a daycare” and “all ages” over and over in the seconds that pass, and she can hardly move. She’s overreacting, she tells herself. Everything is fine. But what if it’s not? She just needs to know. She just needs to be sure...

 

“Mom--”

 

“Call the burn unit and get all peds surgeons on call to the ER now.” Abby belts out directions left and right, her twenty years as a trauma surgeon commanding her onwards like some kind of surgical Wonder Woman. Clarke would marvel at her, envy her grace, if she weren’t frozen with her heart in her throat.

 

“Mom, where--”

 

“Let’s get crash carts outside every room. All unnecessary staff needs to get lost five minutes ago.” The room is alive all around them. Blue and pink scrubs blur past, the buzzing hive of voices replaces the usually quiet, steady beeping of the machines keeping tiny babies alive. Sneakers squeak against tile, clipboards hit desks and walls, stethoscopes rattle around the necks of their running owners. Abby’s voice penetrates it all, but Clarke can hardly seem to find her own.

 

“Mom,” she says again, weak and suddenly intimidated by the action thundering on around her. Abby turns to her and says something, but it goes awash in Clarke’s panicked ears, and Abby is on a mission. Abby is focused, and determined, and she’s not _hearing_ her.

 

“ _Mom_ \--”

 

“Clarke, let’s get nurses at the elevators. I don’t want anyone coming up to the ORs unless they are children from the fire.”

 

"Okay--" Clarke nods and does her best to keep up as a hand on her back propells her forward, "But Mom, I need to talk to you--”

 

“I want you to get extra nurses at the board helping direct OR traffic. I want at least one person keeping a live update on which ORs are free as soon as they open up. And let’s--”

 

“Mom!” She doesn’t mean to shout so loud or grab her mother so hard, but something primal, something terrified inside of her takes over, and there’s nothing she can do to tame it. Not until she knows.

 

Startled, Abby looks around at the few turned heads, then to her wild-eyed daughter.

 

“Mom,” Clarke says, softer now, her chest still heaving with the effort of restraining the panic. “It’s a small town _,”_ she struggles to choke out. She can hardly catch her breath as her eyes search her mother’s face for answers. Her hand comes to her collarbones and she knows she’s losing the battle to be rational. She just needs to know. “Which--which--”

 

“What, Clarke? What?”

 

It’s such a tiny, tiny town. There weren’t many options when she made the choice. There are two daycare centers for miles. How could she know? How could she pick? Say it, Clarke. Just say it.

 

“You said it was a daycare?” Her voice cracks on the end and her eyes brim. “Which--I need to know--where--”

 

“Oh, Clarke,” Abby exhales, finally getting it. With her hands on Clarke’s shoulders, she gives her a steadying squeeze. “It wasn’t Maplewood. It wasn't Ellie's.” Her hand comes up to brush through Clarke’s hair and cup her cheek. “Ellie's fine. She’s okay.”  

 

Clarke’s hand comes over top Abby’s and she nods as she squeezes.

 

“Okay?”

 

Clarke nods, taking a deep breath.

 

“You sure?”

  
“Yeah.”

 

“Good. Let’s get to work.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s the hardest when it’s children...which is something she could get away with saying if she hadn’t chosen to specialize in pediatrics when she became a nurse practitioner. At first it had seemed like a grand idea--quit medical school a year before completion, use those credits to fast track through a masters in nursing program while pregnant and alone, specialize in pediatrics in a meager attempt at being prepared for a baby she wasn't expecting for another decade, and never worry again.

 

Clarke’s elbows dig into her thighs as she rubs at her temples and lets herself cry over the tiny children with burns all over their bodies. For a moment she wonders about the firefighters that had seen them first; The ones that'd plunged their own bodies into the flames to pull out the tiny burned bodies while the smell was still fresh, and the skin still smoking. For a moment, she catches herself thinking about the captain with the pretty eyes, and wonders if she’d been there to see the horrors. Clarke hopes not; she hopes to god that someone so sweet might have been spared from the things that would keep Clarke up at night for weeks to come.

 

She’s got the blood of a four-year-old’s nicked carotid artery all over the front of her scrubs, and her ears are still wringing from all of those agonizing little wails. Her hands shake as she digs her phone out of her pocket and hits one of her five speed dials. It seems to ring forever, but when the line is finally answered, Clarke runs the back of her hand over her nose and forces herself to brighten. “Hi, this is Clarke Griffin. Can I speak with my daughter, please? Just for a minute.”

 

In moments, Clarke is smiling and her eyes are fluttering closed at the sound of her baby’s voice over the phone. In no hurry at all, Clarke sits there and listens to Ellie’s happy chatter until the horrors of her day are fought back with recounts of playtime, and the boy with the cool, purple lunchbox, and the yummy juice at snack time.

 

What horrors remain when Ellie is called back to the classroom, Clarke attempts to wash away under the scalding waters of a long shower.  She sits against the tiles and cries out the rest of what’d accumulated inside her during the endless IVs, burn debriding, and sutures so small she’d almost forgotten how to do them. She counts to ten and tells herself to breath, again and again, until someone apologizes and knocks on the stall.

 

Thankful for the heat to blame for her flushed cheeks, Clarke slips out of the shower and barely manages a smile to the nurse waiting for his turn to absolve the day’s atrocities.  She’s dressed and halfway out the door when she runs into her mother in the halway.

 

“Clarke.”

 

“Mom.”

 

“Are you heading out?”

 

Clarke looks down at her street clothes and the purse on her shoulder, but she refrains from the snarky response the fatigue of the day wants to yank out of her. Instead, she cocks a brow and waits for whatever it is her mother has come all the way down to the east wing to tell her.

 

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Today was...tough.”

 

“I’m in peds, Mom. It’s always tough.”

 

Abby nods and the conversation stalls. Clarke knows that her mother wants to say more, but she’s not in the mood to coax it out of her. All she wants is to get as far away from the hospital, and to her baby, as quickly as she can.

 

“Was there something you needed?"

 

"Just checking in. Wanted to make sure your PTS--

 

"Mom, I really have to get Ellie. I can’t be late again. Last time they said they'd--”

 

“They'd what? Leave her on the curb?” Abby scoffs and for what it's worth, it makes Clarke grin.

 

“They think I’m a bad mother.”

 

“They think that until one of your late shifts saves their neighbour, sibling, parent, child, etc.. Ignore them.”

 

Clarke nods. “Still. I have to go. We can talk later, okay?”

 

Abby acquiesces, albeit reluctantly, and Clarke all but runs down the halls and out to the parking lot. The day had been so grueling and nonstop, she hadn’t gotten the chance to step out for her usual coffee or food breaks, so it surprises her when she finds herself in the middle of a summer storm, heat lightening and all.  She feels a momentary pang of sympathy for the doctors and nurses who will be kept late with the inevitable injuries brought by the heavy rains and low visibility. As she gets in her car and starts the wipers, she remembers a time in med school when bad weather andits plethora of casualties excited her to no end. Now, she just curses the time it will add to her commute.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The rain doesn’t let up for several days, much to Ellie’s endless amusement. Clarke loves the way her little body looks in her matching yellow raincoat and boots, but she decidedly does not love the wet mud that gets tracked through the house after long trips to the park to explore the puddles and every other banality that turns into something amazing with a little bit of water.

 

“Ellie.” Clarke puts her hand atop of her chatterbox and smiles down at her when she finally gets a moment of silence. “Lets take our shoes off before we go inside. We don’t want a mud trail again, right?”

 

Ellie considers for a second then bursts into giggles. “Yes mommy! Mud! Mud!”

 

Clarke chuckles and picks up her little monster before she can go rebelling on into the house. With the grace only a mother contains, Clarke holds Ellie in one arm and discards both of their wet boots with the other, all the while managing to keep them both mostly dry when small lakes drain out of the overturned shoes.

 

The grace ends abruptly when Ellie squeals and twists out of Clarke arms, bolting into the house as soon as her socked feet hit the ground. Clarke winces in preparation for a slip of some kind, but Ellie disappears into the belly of the house with little problem, and Clarke is left to follow the trail of clothes left in her wake.

 

She finds her nearly naked by the French doors in the back looking all kinds of mischievous, but Clarke is too wet and too tired to read into it. Dumping the wet clothes, purse, umbrella and boots in her arms on the dining room table, Clarke turns to the kitchen and thanks the gods of parenthood that for once, she managed to get the dishes done the meal before.

 

“Are you hungry, Ellie?” When she gets no response, she turns and finds Ellie staring up at something on the wall, her little toddler hands clasped behind her back. Clarke sighs and walks over to her. She kneels and cups her baby’s cheeks in her hands. “Elliana.”

 

Ellie looks down to her and beams. “Mommy!”

 

“Are you hungry?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Juice!”

 

“No juice,” Clarke chuckles.

 

“Mommy, juice!”

 

Clarke shakes her head and scoops Ellie up into her arms, hugging her little body close. “Come on, lets get some dry clothes and we can talk about the juice. If you’re good.”

 

“Otay, Mommy.”

 

Clarke smiles and carries her upstairs, a little bit in love with the way Ellie’s head falls to her shoulder and her thumb drifts into her mouth.

 

“Sleepy?”

 

Ellie shakes her head, but the dead weight of her body suggests otherwise and Clarke chuckles.

 

“My diaper, mommy.”

 

“Did you go potty?”

 

Ellie nods.

 

“Okay. We’ll get you cleaned up.” But just as the tub is almost finished filling with warm water, a siren whoops outside, and she jumps. “What the...”

 

Ellie gasps and bolts upright, her little head on swivel as a giddy smile emerges on her face. “Firetwuck, Mommy!”

 

“I hear that,” Clarke mutters, her brow furrowing as she treks back down the stairs with Ellie in tow, her confusion mounting. When she opens the door, dread and embarrassment flood her cheeks as she watches a team of firefighters file out of a familiar truck in her driveway. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she groans.

 

With Ellie on her hip, Clarke closes the door behind her and waits on the top step of her porch where she’s still covered from the rain. A familiar face emerges from the group, and it takes everything in Clarke not to spew a chain of expletives out into the world for her horrid luck.  “Lieutenant Roan,” she says as he approaches, forcing a smile onto her face.

 

“I’m assuming there’s no fire,” he says gruffly, no attempt to hide his annoyance.

 

“Not that I know of, no.”

 

“Have you bothered to check in with your security company’s customer support?”

 

Taken aback, Clarke opens her mouth to respond but has nothing to say.

 

“A simple call would suffice,” he all but snarls.

 

“Roan!” A voice barks from behind him and the giant in front of Clarke simmers as he takes a step back. “Go lead the inspection.”

 

“But there’s no fire--”

 

“I didn’t ask if there was a fire. I told you to go lead the inspection. A simple ‘yes, Captain,’ would suffice.” Lexa appears at the bottom of Clarke's steps and grins up at the mother for her little joke. “Ms. Griffin. Doing okay this evening?”

 

When Clarke has nothing to say this time, it’s because her breath is caught and she’s wondering just when the captain’s smile had gotten to be quite so... _lovely._ She swallows the thought and nods, shifting Ellie higher onto her hip so that she can shake the captain’s outstretched hand.

 

“Roan’s an ass, but he’s not wrong about the call. I know I told you the company usually handles these malfunctions when our inspection reports are sent to them, but because of the frequency of these errors, you may want to check in with them. Just to see if they can shed any light.”

 

Too embarrassed to say much of anything and suddenly aware of how disgusting she must look with an entire day’s worth of playing in the rain drenching her features, Clarke can only give the captain a soft, “Yeah, okay. I will.” With her freehand she makes a meagre attempt at an improvement and brushes a wet strand of hair behind her ear as the captain continues to stare at her with those ridiculous eyes and stupid smile.

 

“Me?” Ellie suddenly asks, pitching herself out of Clarke’s arms towards the firefighter. “Me!” She squeals and Clarke knows by the timber of her voice that she’s not far from a fit. Conflicted, she tries to shush and bounce the toddler into submission, but Ellie is determined. She whines and leans further towards the bewildered fire captain until Clarke is forced to shift her to the other hip.

 

Mistake. Ellie bursts into tears and presses against Clarke’s chest so hard, Clarke nearly drops her.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Clarke struggles, bouncing and shushing again in futility. “We just got back from the park. She’s hungry and tired.”

 

“Truck!” Ellie screams, reaching for the captain again.

 

“Ah. May I?” Lexa offers her hands, but Clarke is hesitant. For no particular reason, Clarke feels the compelling need to keep her baby and the attractive captain as far apart as possible, and she’s losing the battle with every passing second.

“I promise I don’t bite. Not children at least,” Lexa teases, but the joke falls on deaf ears as Clarke fights to keep her wiggling toddler restrained. The captain clears her throat and tries again. “I think she liked the truck. I can show her again...if you think that might...help?”

 

Ellie has resorted to hitting now, and Clarke is mortified. “No hitting, Elliana,” she mutters as she dodges flailing limbs.

 

“Mommy, truck!” Ellie sobs, and Clarke groans.

 

“Ellie, you have to use your words. No hitting. Do you want to see the fire truck?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“Nicely, please.”

 

Ellie settles and wipes at her tear stricken cheeks. “Yes, mommy. Pease.”

 

Clarke sighs and chances a look over to the firefighter, expecting distaste or maybe disgust. Instead she finds a kind expression and open hands offered up once again. Reluctantly, Clarke hands over her child and rubs her forehead as she watches the two get reacquainted.

 

“Hello, Ellie. I’m Lexa.”

 

Ellie marvels up at the relatively new, but still familiar person holding her, and Clarke can see her eyes jumping all around to the various details of Lexa’s uniform.

 

“Can you say hello to Lexa, Ellie?” Clarke encourages, her hand coming to Ellie’s back to regain her attention.

 

“Hi, Wexa,” Ellie whispers as her little fingers fixate on Lexa’s metal nametag, making Lexa smile.

 

“You like that?”

 

Ellie nods and scratches her tiny, trimmed nail over the engraved letters.

 

“I’m sorry, she’s very tactile,” Clarke sighs.

 

Lexa, totally engrossed in the small thing in her arms, doesn’t look up from watching Ellie explore as she shakes her head and smiles. “I don’t mind.”

 

When Ellie’s had enough, her little head rises so far back to look up at the tall firefighter, it’s almost comical. “Truck?”

 

“Sure. Do you remember last time?”

 

Ellie nods, and Clarke is impressed. The pediatric nurse in her can’t help but notice that the ability to remember so far back isn’t something Ellie should be able to do for about another year. Then again, she’d always thought Ellie was advanced for her age. Then again, she may be biased.

 

“Did you like the siren?” Lexa turns towards the truck, and Clarke appreciates the way the captain glances over to check in with her before moving too far down the stairs. Clarke smiles her permission and follows behind the pair, squinting slightly against the rain that had turned to a drizzle.

 

“Mom, would you like to get in too, this time?” Lexa asks, grinning as she turns to look at Clarke.

 

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Clarke rushes to say, blushing for a reason she couldn’t hope to pinpoint in a million years.

 

“You sure?”

 

“I--” Clarke curses those godforsaken eyes before she sighs. “Alright. Sure.”

 

Lexa beams and Clarke tries not to feel too proud for being the cause of it. “Here, it’s a high step, let me just--”

 

Suddenly, Lexa’s hand is on Clarke’s lower back, helping her into the rig. Clarke has to clear her throat to hide her surprise at the warm, sturdy touch, and she is so very thankful that the firefighter can’t see her in all her nervous, ridiculous glory.

 

Like a startled animal that can’t decide whether to run or attack, Clarke sits ramrod straight once she's in the cab of the truck, nodding ever so slightly in politeness when Lexa explains something, but otherwise doing her very best to uninvite any semblance of those pretty eyes and smile. She doesn’t need it. She doesn’t want it. It’s what she tells herself as she watches Lexa interact so naturally with her little girl.

 

Clarke rolls her eyes at the flood of hormones that rage through her body when she catches sight of Ellie’s tiny hand in Lexa’s large one. It’s just science, she scolds herself. Pure biology. It’s only natural to feel _something_ when you see your offspring with, well, a _specimen_ quite like the one beside her. Clarke bites the inside of her cheek and glares at the ceiling, entirely unamused by the traitorous things happening inside her.

 

“You okay over there, mom?”

 

Christ. Clarke peels her eyes away from the ceiling and forces a smile and a nod as she tries not to look at the firefighter for too long. “Just tired,” she murmurs when Lexa continues to smile at her.

 

“Maybe we should let mommy go back inside. She’s sleepy,” Lexa says down to Ellie who sits happily in her lap, playing with all the dials on the dashboard.

 

“Mommy needs nap,” Ellie says matter of factly as she flips a switch that Lexa quickly reaches for and flips back with a small chuckle under her breath.

 

“Ellie needs dinner, bath time and bed time,” Clarke sighs, growing impatient with the whole situation at hand.

She doesn’t think she's all that obvious in her annoyance, but Lexa immediately goes sheepish and pats Ellie’s little leg.

 

“Okay kiddo, we better get you back inside.”

 

“No!” Ellie screams and bursts into tears once again.

 

“Oh dear god,” Clarke mutters as she reaches over. She scoops Ellie out of Lexa’s lap and casts the captain an apologetic look--both for her apparent inability to be polite in the midst of her raging hormones, and for the toll her toddler was currently taking on everybody’s eardrums.

 

A member of Lexa’s team holds out his hand to help Clarke down and hands her the clipboard to sign off on the inspection. With Ellie screaming in her ear, and her phone ringing with a call likely from her mother, Raven or Octavia, the firefighters’ exit happens so quickly she almost doesn’t process it until she’s standing at the end of her empty driveway.

 

As she watches the tail of the truck disappear around the corner, a sliver of guilt catches in the base of her throat at how she’d acted with the kind captain who’d been nothing but patient and generous with them from the beginning.

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, exasperated with everything, and walks back to the house. “Fucking amateur,” she huffs at herself and kicks the door closed behind her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Did you call Arakadia Secruity?”

 

When Clarke grimaces guiltily, the grin on Lexa’s face is undeniable.

 

“You should call.”

 

“I know. I _know,_ ” Clarke groans. She watches Ellie thread between Lexa’s legs, giggling as she grabs onto the cargo fabric of Lexa's pants and play with the Velcro flaps of the pockets around Lexa’s knees.

 

“Are you having trouble finding their number? It should be on the panel, but if not I’m sure we could find it online.”

 

“No, it’s not that I’m just--Ellie, stop. Come here.--I’m just...really busy. I haven’t found the time to sit down and call. And I’ve--Ellie!”

 

Lexa chuckles and picks up the toddler with sticky fingers. She pries the Leatherman tool out of her little fist and re-pockets it. “She’s okay,” Lexa assures, giving Ellie’s round tummy a little tickle.

 

It makes Clarke’s insides boil, and she has to clench her teeth to keep from snapping at the captain. For what, exactly, she doesn't know. She just knows that whatever it is the captain is doing, needs to not be happening. Clarke runs her hands over her face and groans. “This is so embarrassing.”

 

Lexa laughs and waits for the mother to reappear, smiling when she does. “Do you mind if I come take a look at your panel? Maybe I can tell what’s going on.”

 

“You don’t have another call to get to?” Clarke tries, weakly.

 

“Nope. This was the last call of our shift. I’ll have the boys take the truck back and I’ll call a cab or something when I’m done.”

 

Clarke takes a little too long to think about it. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Lexa _..._ it’s just that she doesn’t really trust...anybody. Lexa seems harmless enough, she really does, and while on the one hand, it’s intriguing, on the other, it makes Clarke nervous. Lexa is a big unknown, and in Clarke's past, that's never really worked out well for her.

 

Clarke smiles, but it’s obvious in its unease, even to her.. “That’s okay...really. I just need to call.”

 

“Will you, though? No, I don’t mean to--“ Lexa stutters when Clarke looks affronted at the veiled accusation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that you’re busy. Like you said. I know you are. You’ve got a toddler, of course you’re busy.”

 

Clarke can’t catch her grin in time, but who could blame her? She’s never seen the firefighter quite so unhinged before, and there’s a part of her that feels a little mighty at having reduced such a poised creature to a stuttering, rambling mess. “Lexa, please,” Clarke chuckles, taking mercy on the poor thing, “I’ll call. I promise.”

 

“It’s not that I don’t like seeing you guys. It’s just that...when it happens twice a week, every week...” Lexa hands Ellie back to her mother.

 

“I know.”

 

“I really would be happy to take a look at the panel for you.”

 

“I know you would. And you’re sweet. But I really need to get Ellie ready for bath and bed. We haven’t done dinner yet, and I’ve got an early shift tomorrow. I just need to wrap up the night.”

 

Lexa nods and smiles as she starts to retreat. “Understood.”

 

“I really do appreciate the offer.”

 

“Maybe next time.”

 

“Yes. Wait...” Clarke catches the reoccurring joke for once and laughs as she shakes her head. “There won’t _be_ a next time. I promise.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes at the presumptuous grin on the retreating captain’s face. “Seriously. Scout’s honor.”

 

“Were you a girl scout?”

 

“No, but--”

 

“Then that’s an empty promise,” Lexa teases as she climbs into the rig.

 

Clarke shakes her head, burying her smile into Ellie’s hair because she’ll be damned if she lets Lexa have yet another one to lord over her. She watches the truck pull out of her driveway, and remains on her porch until the rig is gone from sight.

 

"Well," she says, looking down at Ellie. "Should we go eat?" 

 

“Wexa!” Ellie chirps, pulling a screwdriver seemingly out of nowhere to show her mother.

 

Clarke takes one look at it and gasps, much to Ellie’s amusement. “Is that--”

 

“Wexa,” Ellie repeats, giggling.

 

“Oh my god, you’re like a raccoon, you little klepto,” Clarke groans.  Clarke stares off down the road the truck was long gone from. She takes the screwdriver out of Ellie’s little fist and recedes back into the warm glow of the house, confused as ever as to what to do next. "You two are trouble," she sighs.


	3. Getting Hot in Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for hanging in there! This chapter is a little short, but I wanted to go ahead and get it out. As always, let me know what you think!

They say firefighters are brave, but sometimes, Lexa thinks they might just be stupid--stupid and reckless and heavy. Which is how she finds herself in the position of dragging an unconscious rookie through a quickly crumbling apartment building. She grunts as she tightens her fist around the collar of the rookie’s PPE and tugs him across the splintering floor. Even through her visor her face burns from the flames chasing her down. 

 

The smoke is thick and full of sediment that she can feel in the corner of her eyes and in between her teeth despite her mask. It’s the worst apartment fire she’s seen in a while, and of course it’s the one a rookie gets himself trapped inside of.

 

Controlled and professional, and with that little light her helmet light sheds, Lexa studies the crumbling architecture trying to map their way out of this mess.

 

The way she came in is long gone by the time she stops and props the rookie up on a charred beam. Exhausted and frustrated, she looks around for something, anything, to help her get out of the imploding building. She squats down and taps on the kid’s visor.

 

“Wake-up, kid. Come on.” She checks her walkie, but it’s all static in the midst of the crumbling walls and violent flames. “It’s just you and me. I need you to help me out here, we don’t have much time.” He sits motionless, his face like a shadow behind all the soot. “Son of bitch,” she growls, returning to her feet.

 

A loud groan, so loud it hurts her ears even over the roar of the fire, sends a chill down her spine. It’s one of the first things you learn as a rookie, and the thing you fear above all else for the rest of your career. She swallows the lump in her dry, scratchy throat and looks up.

 

She can hear it, almost one by one, it’s unmistakable. Her years and years on the job tells her that the collapsing floor is about ten floors above hers, leaving her a matter of minutes before the ceiling above her own head gives way.

 

“We gotta go.” She yanks the rookie to his feet, and with a squat and a thrusts, hauls him over her shoulder. Her legs want to cave under the weight and oxygen deprivation, but she forces one foot in front of the other. With the only way out being through, she grits her teeth and passes through a wall of flames, coughing and squinting and praying that it’s over soon.

 

She finds the top of the cement emergency exit stairs that are still standing and hauls ass down them, hoping that they lead to somewhere promising, preferably, somewhere still in tact. With one hand pressed to the wall to keep her upright, she takes the stairs two at a time when she can.

 

She’s pushing through a crumbling wall on the next floor down when she hears the one thing that scares her more than a collapsing ceiling.

 

* * *

 

 

“We have to go get her.”

 

“Stand down.”

 

“She’s dying in there. You know she is. There’s no way she’s making it out of that without help. Roan. Roan, she’s dying--”

 

Roan grabs Lincoln by the front of his PPE and gives him a hard shake. “You think I don’t fucking know that?” He spits, voice kept low away from the ears of the public watching the blaze run on. “You think I like this? I can’t send anyone else in there. You heard the chief. Keep your fucking hose trained on that building and hope to god that she makes it out. That’s all we can do right now. Get your shit together.”

 

Roan releases Lincoln with a shove and turns back to the blaze.

 

Roan’s a an annoying bastard, but Lincoln can see the way the lieutenant’s eyes search the blaze, every once of him straining against his duty to follow orders and not go in after his captain. With shared anger, Lincoln curses and slams his visor down.

 

* * *

 

 

“Can you squeeze my hand?” The tiny thing in her arm can barely be seen nodding under Lexa’s mask that is almost larger than the toddler’s face. There’s a weak squeeze that Lexa almost doesn’t feel as she runs across the creaking floor, rookie on one shoulder, fading baby in her free arm. “Good girl. We’re almost there.”

 

Truth is, Lexa has no idea if her plan is going to work. She can barely remember where the wall is that she’s looking for. When...if...she does find it, she can’t even be sure that there won’t be fallen debris in the way. It’s her only option though, so she pushes onward with the hope that everything will work out.

 

She can barely breathe by the time she rounds the last flight of stairs and hits the lobby. Her eyes are so wet and irritated everything is a black blur. Her nose burns and her throat is screaming at her without the protection of her mask, but she hadn’t had a choice. The baby would be dead without her mask and supplied air, so Lexa does her best to hold her breath and keep her head down.

 

Her boots squeak against the tile floor of the lobby as she runs, one foot in front of the other, right-left, right-left, anything to keep going. “Almost there,” she pants. “Squeeze?” It takes a moment, almost long enough to make Lexa stop, but then she feels it, and it gives her another surge of energy. “That’s it. Stay awake, Cassie. Don’t go to sleep, we’re almost there.”

 

Her heart drops when the wall of windows on the front of the building she’d been looking for, the one she’d remembered passing on her way to work every day, is barely visible through a jungle of fallen structural beams.

 

“Fuck!” The shout makes her dizzy and nauseous and she mentally berates herself for the excessive, needles waste of energy, but she’s trapped and exhausted and _hot._ “You’ve got to fucking kidding me,” she pants, dropping the rookie and sliding him up to the criss-crossing array of wood. “You need to wake the fuck up,” she heaves, smacking his helmet. “I know you can do it. I need your help.”

 

But he’s as motionless as Lexa wishes she were. She shifts the little girl higher on her hip and looks around at the ornate lobby. “Fucking ancient fire codes,” she mutters. “This is what happens.” That’s when it hits her. She sets the little girl down long enough to haul the rookie back over her shoulder, then she scoops the little girl up and rushes over to the elevator. As she’d hoped, there’s a metal emergency exit map still legible on the walls. She traces the floor plan with her eyes until she finds the closest lobby bathroom.

 

The door is falling off it’s hinge when she gets there, and Lexa quickly kicks it in, twisting around to shield the little girl from the wall of flames that springs forth to greet her. She lets it die back down before pressing herself to the wall, as far from the blaze as she can get, and sliding across the length of the bathroom.

 

“Oh thank fuck,” she breathes when one of her plans finally bears some fruit and she sees the small window above the melting stalls of the toilets, as she’d hoped. “Cassie? Still with me?” The little girl nods and just barely tightens her grip on the collar of Lexa’s turnout coat when she can sense Lexa starting to put her down. “I need you to let go for one second, okay? Can you do that?” The little girl starts to fuss, but Lexa doesn’t have time. Every second matters. She peels the little girl off of her and sets her down, using her hand to scoot her gently so that she’s pressed up against the wall, away from the flames. She slips her breathing apparatus off of her back and sets it down next to the little girl so that she can climb up onto the toilet.

 

“Close your eyes and look down, Cassie,” she instructs before closing her fist and drawing it up to the glass. In one fluid motion, Lexa punches through and ducks as the flames leap over hear head towards the new source of oxygen. Again, she waits for the flames to die back down before poking her head out to check for the ground.

 

The smoke is thick with ash and Lexa can’t see anything, but she doesn’t have much of a choice. “We’re on the first floor,” she tells herself and the unconscious rookie, “It’s gotta be close.” She rises to her tiptoes, balancing on the toilet and extends the rookies feet out of the window. “Good thing you’re small,” she murmurs, and then, “Hope it’s close” before letting him slip through.

 

She scoops up the little girl next and hands her the air tank. “Hold onto this, okay? Don’t let go.” The little girl nods as Lexa lifts her to the window. “I’m going to let you down now. When you get to the ground, I need you to move, okay? Move as far away as you can.”

 

She’s not even sure of the toddler’s level of comprehension, but the little girl nods and Lexa just has to hope that she’ll move far enough away so that she isn’t crushed when Lexa follows after her. She leans as far out of the window as she can, the metal frame digging into her stomach despite her thick coat, and tries to get the toddler as close to the ground as she can. “Ready? One, two, three--”

 

* * *

  


“Roan!” 

 

Roan looks up at the sound of his name and the sudden rise of shouts coming from the public spectators. He finds Lincoln handing off his hose and rushing towards the building seconds before seeing why.

 

There in the smoke, like a mirage, is the shimmering form of his captain, bent over from the waist down with the missing rookie over her shoulder, and a tiny child attached to her hand. His eyes widen and he jumps into action. “Go get her! Bender, Johnson, Chavez!” The firefighters take off towards their captain, racing against time to get to her before the building finally goes.

 

The first thing Lexa notices is the little girl leaving her custody. She wants to cry out, but she’s exhausted and she knows that the baby will be taken care of. The next, is a mask being shoved to her face. She nearly collapses with the cool, rush of oxygen that fills her lungs as she greedily sucks in her first full breathes of air. The weight off her back she knows is the rookie being taken from her, and Lexa can’t stop the bitter twinge of resentment of what the rookie had put her through due to his careless stupidity and dangerous bravado.

 

What she doesn’t have time to notice, is the ground getting closer and closer as she sinks to it, and passes out.

 

* * *

 

 

Five hours, a hospital visit, fluids, oxygen and an unapproved discharge later, Lexa sits at her desk at the fire station, her face in her hands. She’s shaky and still dehydrated, but ultimately fine. Fine enough to not be wasting away in a bed when there’s something on her mind that refuses to go away.

 

She leans forward and takes the charred and melted bracelet in her hand. She’d meant to give it to the parents, but there hadn’t been anytime. Cassie was whisked away in an ambulance quicker than Lexa had passed out, and by the time Lexa had awoken, the hospital was utter chaos with the influx of fire victims. She tucks it in a drawer for safe-keeping and shrugs on her leather jacket, glad for once that it’s fabric retains the cold air of the station and feels good on her heat-irritated skin.

 

On her way out, she digs the toy she’d dropped off for the toy drive out of the bin and promises to replace it as soon as she can. She has a good home in mind for this one and hopes that enough to let this little transgression slide.

 

When she reaches the doors of the station, she stops. She rests her forehead against the cool metal, breathing, trying not to let it hit her how close she’d pushed it today. She doesn’t want to show up to where she’s going flustered and out of whack. Her hands splay against the door and she gives herself a second to collect before pressing out into the cold night air.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a relatively quiet night for the Griffin household with both Clarke and Ellie glad to be home and settled. There’s always something special about the late evening dinner that comes at the end of a long day, and something softer about the evening the later it stretches into the night.

 

The sun is down and the moon has replaced its intensity with a soothing, silver glow that makes the lights inside the house somehow warmer and cozier. After a long, intense day at the hospital, Clarke feels as if she could almost melt into the open arms of her quiet home.  

 

Ellie seems equally as relaxed and ready to sprawl out in comfort, running around in just her diapers. Clarke has since given up trying to get her toddler to put any clothes on, and instead focuses on the sauce in her pan, smelling and tasting to get it just right.

 

She brings the wooden spoon to her mouth and blows on the tomato sauce before tasting it again.

 

“Done, mommy?”

 

Ellie presses her little body into Clarke’s leg and tugs on her scrub pants, her little chin tilted up at the chance of getting an early taste. “Almost.” Clarke smiles at her and squats down to her height. Holding her hand beneath the spoon to catch any drips, she holds it to her baby’s mouth and watches with the immensity of a mother’s love as Ellie’s tiny lips wrap around the edge of the spoon and slurp up the recipe that has been in the Griffin family for generations.

 

Ellie’s little hum of approval, and her red beaming smile, makes Clarke laugh as she returns to the pot and combs her fingers through Ellie’s hair. “Sleepy?” She asks when Ellie reattaches to her leg and leans her head against her thigh.

 

“Want.”

 

“It’s almost done, baby. Wanna put the clothes on mommy set out for you on the couch?”

 

Ellie shakes her head and presses heavier into her mother’s leg. Clarke lowers her hand to Ellie’s forehead and checks her temperature, then moves to her back, giving it a gentle rub. “You feeling okay, love?”

 

Ellie nods and reaches up with her little arms, stretching and squirming to be picked up. Clarke sets the spoons aside and scoops her into her arms, content with the way Ellie’s head falls to her shoulder and her thumb makes it’s way to her mouth. She’s the epitome of soft love in physical form, and Clarke relishes in the closeness after a day like today.

 

“My little cuddlebug,” she hums and kisses Ellie on the head as she returns to the pot on the stove.

 

 

A knock at the door is the last thing she expects to hear as she’s setting the table twenty minutes later. Confused, maybe a touch annoyed, or perhaps just exhausted, Clarke places the last plate down and ruffles Ellie’s hair as she pads past her to the front door.

 

Neglecting the peephole in her fatigue, Clarke opens the door and wraps her shawl around her against the cool night air that rushes in. She’s completely unprepared for the pretty firefighter on her doorstep, dressed in street clothes for once--street clothes that do nothing but befuddle the tired mother even further.

 

“Lexa--hi.”

 

Looking just as startled as Clarke, Lexa smiles, and Clarke might even call it shy. “Hi. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude.”

 

“Did the alarm go off again?”

 

Clarke watches the firefighter scratch at the back of her neck and shake her head, quite the pretty sight, Clarke can’t help but acknowledge.

 

“No, I just. I thought I’d drop this off for the little one on my way home. Given how much she seems to like the real thing, I thought this could tide her over.”

 

Lexa holds out the toy fire truck, and looks at her hands like the treacherous traitors they are, still in disbelief that she’d let herself drive across down, turn down the neighborhood street, park on the road and walk up to this house she definitely shouldn’t be at.

 

When Clarke takes the toy with a surprised, little smile, Lexa toes at something on the porch, something definitely needing to be toed at, because she’s entirely unsure what to do with herself next.

 

Saved by the bell, there’s a small crash somewhere in the belly of the house, some skidding and squealing, and then suddenly there is a tiny being, clad in nothing but a diaper, grabbing onto Lexa’s hand and doing it’s best to tug her forward.

 

Lexa chuckles and scratches at her neck again, needing something to do with her free hand.

 

“Ellie, please let go of Lexa....Elliana. Goodness, I’m so sorry.”

 

Ellie huffs and looks up at her mother, brow furrowed. “It’s eat time.”

 

Lexa’s eyes go wide and she looks up at Clarke, painfully aware of the stupidity of her trauma-induced impulsiveness--

 

“You’re in the middle of dinner. I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about that.” She tries to pull her hand free from the toddler, but Ellie whines and tightens her little grip. “I should go.”   


“Mommy, eat time,” Ellie whines, tugging on the firefighter, looking up at her mother, confused as to why neither adult is following her back to the table.

 

Momentarily distracted by the woman in the leather jacket and jeans, hair down, and traces of black near the hinge of her jaw, the casual motorcycle chic of Lexa’s lazy look doing _things_ to the flustered mother,  Clarke clears her throat and steps slightly to the side. “Would you--I mean, you’re welcome to join us.”

 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly impose upon you any further--”

 

“Wexa, eat,” Ellie says, her toddler brain still struggling to understand the unspoken language between the adults, still struggling to see why Lexa doesn’t move, save for a small rock forward when her hand is tugged on again. Ellie looks back and forth between the two of them as Lexa hesitates and Clarke finds herself holding her breath.

 

“I really should be going,” Lexa tries.

 

“Have you eaten?”

 

Lexa attempts to ignore the grumbling in her stomach as she nods. She’s blinded by the small smile Clarke gives her.

 

“You know, when you become a mother, you get this really cool super power where you can tell when someone is lying about eating.”

 

Lexa laughs. “You sure that’s not a nurse thing?”

 

“It might be. Either way, I can spot someone in need of a meal from a mile away.”

 

When Lexa just chuckles nervously and shakes her head at the floor, Clarke breathes a peptalk into herself, and continues. “I think you’d really make Ellie’s night if you joined us.”

 

Lexa raises her gaze. Well how could she possibly say no to that?

 

 

Clarke’s home looks completely different when Lexa walks through it as a guest rather than for an inspection with a motley grew of annoyed firefighters on her heels. It’s warm and charming, beautifully crafted and decorated. Well lived in.  There are shoes strewn about among the toys that litter the ground, a pile of mail on the console table in the hallway, two coats--one big and one small-- falling off the back of a kitchen island stool, and somehow, it’s all the more perfect.

 

“I’m sorry for the mess,” Clarke throws over her shoulder, a lovely tint to her cheeks.

 

Lexa smiles and shakes her head, distracted by the memories it floats. “It’s lovely,” she murmurs, and returns to her observations.

 

Ellie continues to name the various objects in the house as she tows Lexa along, picking up a toy occasionally to hand to the firefighter so that when they reach the dining room on the other side of the kitchen, Lexa’s free arm is full of stuffed animals and children’s things.

 

Clarke turns to say something, but her words catch when she sees the firefighter, bent in half with her arms full of toys, nodding along to whatever it is Ellie is whispering into her ear. Those little hands splayed on Lexa’s shoulder is enough to make Clarke want to be busy doing anything other than processing the feelings the sight stirs in her.

 

“Ellie,” she calls, turning her attention to needlessly straightening the plastic wear on the tray of Ellie’s high table. “Ready to eat?” She pretends not to see the way Ellie leads Lexa by the finger to the table.

 

“You sit by me, Wexa.”

 

The firefighter chuckles and nods, but doesn’t sit once Ellie is strapped into the high chair. Instead, she turns to Clarke, who turns to the kitchen, and tries to find some semblance of calm. “Can I help you with anything?”

 

Clarke clears her throat, so out of practice, but of what she couldn’t quite say. She buries herself in the fridge instead.

 

“That’s okay. What would you like to drink? We’ve got water, milk...apple juice.” She cringes at the lack of adult beverages she has to offer and searches for the bottle of beer she thinks she remembers seeing leftover from when Raven had stopped by for a movie night.

 

“Water would be great. I actually...I’m actually a little dehydrated, so if you have lukewarm water, that’d be even better. Tap is fine. But cold is good too. Either or,” Lexa says, quick to amend, careful of overstepping, worried about everything.

 

“You’re dehydrated?” Clarke whirls around, nurse overshadowing out-of-practice, nervous, single mom. “Why? Are you sick?”

 

“I--” Lexa stumbles for words with Clarke now standing before her, looking up at her, studying her. She watches as Clarke’s eyes go slightly wider, the blue of them beckoning Lexa to be reckless and stupid. More so than usual, of course.

 

“The apartment fire. You were there.”

 

Lexa nods, eyes scanning Clarke’s worried features.

 

“Were you inside?”

 

Lexa nods.

 

“For how long?”

 

“Too long,” Lexa says with a soft chuckle, but Clarke doesn’t smile. Instead she takes Lexa’s forearm and grabs at the skin, pulling on it and watching it snap back into place.

 

“Did you get fluids?”

 

“They gave me an IV at the hospital.”

 

Clarke looks up at her, forehead furrowed. “You were at the hospital?”

 

“For a moment, yes.”

 

Clarke continues to look at her with that expression that makes Lexa’s hands itch to do something other than hang limply by her side. Finally, like a breath being released, Clarke nods and picks Lexa’s arm back up.

 

“Did you get oxygen?” Lexa nods and Clarke wordlessly turns the firefighter’s arm over, checking her pulse.

 

Lexa swallows hard and hopes that the nurse will chalk her rapid heart rate up to the dehydration. Because that’s what it is. That’s what makes the most sense. That’s what Lexa tells herself.

 

Clarke just hums and walks back to the kitchen. She comes back with a large jug of water and a saltshaker, and Lexa can’t disguise the grimace that slips onto her face, knowing what comes next.

 

“I’m a nurse,” Clarke reminds her with a grin. “Don’t argue, just drink.”

 

* * *

 

 

Despite the salty water, dinner is lovely. Ellie is a hoot and her mother is a dream Lexa does and doesn’t want to wake up from. She’s elbow deep in soapy water--an argument hard fought and won-- and finds that no matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop staring; at the sweet mother with beautiful eyes tending to the sleepy toddler that refuses to be sleepy; at the various family pictures that line the living room wall; at the teddy bear on the couch; at the soft baby blanket trailing behind in a small fist. It’s so painfully domestic and gentle, Lexa is transfixed.

 

Clarke turns suddenly and Lexa is caught. She ducks her eyes at the smile she receives and shakes her head, grinning to herself.

 

“I’m going to put her to bed real quick. Would you mind waiting? I’d love to see you out.”

 

Lexa musters the courage to raise her head and nod, but the sleepy thing in Clarke’s arms has other ideas.

 

“No!” Ellie shouts, little fists pushing against her mother’s chest. “Movie!”

 

“Movie?” Clarke laughs incredulously. “It’s way past your bedtime.”

 

With no warning at all, Ellie bursts into tears. She’s a hurricane in Clarke’s arms, tiny but powerful, shoving and tugging and shaking her little head to all of Clarke’s soft pleadings for her to behave.

 

Entirely unsure of her place, Lexa stands there awkwardly, her arms stilled among the dinner plates in the sink.

 

“I want movie wif Wexa,” the toddler cries, rubbing angry fists into tired eyes. “Pease, mommy. Pease. Just a widdle.”

 

Clarke sighs and turns apologetically to the startled firefighter. Caught again, Lexa pretends she hasn’t heard anything and raises her eyebrows with a smile.

 

“Fancy a few minutes of Thomas the Choo Choo Train?”

 

“Do you have the episode where Thomas and the gang puts out the fire?”

 

Clarke stares at her for a moment, then lets out the loveliest laugh Lexa thinks she’s ever heard, or perhaps it’s just the smoke inhalation.

 

“I’m sure we can find that one.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lexa is entirely unprepared for the sleeping toddler in her lap. Five minutes in, Ellie had helped herself to Lexa’s personal space and made herself quite at home against Lexa’s chest.

 

“I’m so sorry,” the mother had groaned, “she doesn’t quite have the personal boundaries thing down yet.”

 

Comforted by the little presence, Lexa had waved her off and smiled, patting the small head that sunk back against her collarbones.

 

But with the blue flickering light of the screen casting marvelous, dancing shadows across Clarke’s face, and the steady, heavy breathing of the sleeping toddler against her chest, Lexa finds herself entirely overwhelmed.

 

When she looks away from the TV, her heart jumps a little to find Clarke staring at her, something indecipherable written across her features. She smiles at the mother and tries not to think too hard about what it means when Clarke lingers a moment longer, then returns her gaze to the toy trains.   

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m sorry about this,” the mother whispers as Lexa follows her up the stairs.

 

Afraid of her own voice, Lexa just smiles and shakes her head, adjusting the sleeping toddler in her arms ever so slightly. Lexa’s arms ache and sit heavy in place from her earlier efforts of the day, but she’s happy to help where she can.

 

It’s nice, she thinks, knowing someone like Clarke; knowing something about the person that she’s helping; not just a nameless face she’ll never speak to again. It’s nice knowing the little things; that Clarke smiles while chewing sometimes; that she walks around barefoot, even when the evening is chilly; that she gets this sweet, far-off happy look on her face when she watches her child do anything and everything.

 

“It’s just in here.”

 

Lexa nods and slips into the dim, little room. There’s a nightlight already on, casting the room in a sleepy, warm glow that makes her want to curl up herself.  Instead, she scoots past the mother, careful to avoid those pretty, blue eyes.

 

Even with the tiny thing in her arms, Lexa is surprised by just how small the bed in the corner is, forgetting sometimes how so very little children can be. Unable to avoid comparing the tiny body she’s tucking in to the one she’d tugged out of a fire today, she doesn’t stop herself from running her hand over Ellie’s head, gently petting the soft hair, appreciating the living warmth beneath her palm.

 

When she catches herself and pulls away, there’s that same look in Clarke’s eyes. Lexa watches her in the glow of the nightlight--the way her eyes dance about like they can’t decide where to land, the way her chest rises and falls and tickles the loose strands of hair that have chosen to rest there. She’s so painfully beautiful, Lexa doesn’t know what to possibly do with herself.

 

“So I’ll--” She starts, but in her attempt to whisper, her voice cracks and nothing comes out.

 

It makes Clarke smile and Lexa is as good as gone as she’s gestured out of the room. She stands back as Clarke kisses her baby, pulls the covers up a little further, and tip toes out of the room, leaving Lexa aching for something nostalgic and on the edge of her memory.

 

 

They walk down the stairs in silence and on to the front door which Lexa has decided is a very dangerous place. To stand there opposite the mother--with the beautiful smile and shining eyes, with the warm home and sweet baby--and hope to make it out unscathed has got to be one of Lexa’s more ridiculous ambitions.

 

She’d stood no hope at the beginning of the evening, and she feels herself floundering already as Clarke tucks hair behind her ear and leans on the door frame and hugs herself against the chilly night air. Unaware of the last time she’d had a good, ‘ol genuine crush, Lexa finds herself both terrified and thrilled to be perched on this stoop, mostly at a loss for words but comfortable with the silence.

 

“Thank you for dinner,” she ends up managing when Clarke’s head falls to rest on the door frame. “I’m sorry to have invited myself over.”

 

Clarke smiles and shrugs. There’s a sleepiness to her movements that makes her soft and open, more so than Lexa remembers her being. It’s dangerous and slippery and so very enticing.

 

“You didn’t,” Clarke sighs, happy, Lexa thinks. “My toddler did.”

 

“A punishable offense?” Lexa grins, taking a little pride when she gets one mirrored back at her.

 

“The verdict’s still out on that one.”

 

“Mm. I’ll have to make a better impression next time.”

 

“Oh, next time?”

 

There’s a glint to Clarke’s eye that urges Lexa on in ways she hasn’t been urged on in years. It’s enlivening and wonderful and again, _dangerous,_ she has to remind herself.  But she’d never been good at knowing when to shut up.

 

“Yeah, you know. When the alarm goes off.”

 

Clarke laughs, head back, then looks up at Lexa in the prettiest of ways. “I still don’t know what’s up with that.”

 

“I should’ve taken a look after we ate.”

 

“Maybe next time.”

 

“So there _will_ be a next time?”

 

“It’s inevitable, with my luck.”

 

Puffed up and proud, Lexa nods. With her hands in her pocket and her captive door frame audience, Lexa takes a leap and goes for gold. “You know, if you wanted me over, you could just call the station. Ask to see me. I’d probably swing by.”

 

“Hah. Is _that_ all it takes? Here I was thinking I had to interrupt my day, cost the city hundreds of dollars, piss off Rian or whatever his name is, and gamble with the ever-fluctuating moods of a two year old, just to get you over here. Who knew I could have just _called?_ ”

 

Lexa smiles. “Now you know.”

 

“Now I know.”

 

The silence that follows is comfortable and natural, but it gives Lexa too much time to stare and drown and think about dangerous things like “next times.” Needing to go before a part of her never leaves, Lexa nods to herself and rocks back on her heels, fleeing but staying, all at once.

 

“Thank you for dinner, Clarke.”

 

“Thank you for the firetruck.”

 

“I hope it keeps the end of the world from coming on a daily basis. At least until we can get the real thing over here again.”

 

“I’m sure that’s not far off.”

 

“Wouldn’t be the worst part of my day.”

 

Clarke smiles, and Lexa collects this one with the same eagerness as all the others.

 

“So…I’ll see you?”

 

“Inevitably. Thank you again for the toy. She loves it, and I love the that it keeps her occupied.”

 

Lexa scratches the back of her neck like a nervous, excited wreck and grins all the way down the porch steps and front walk. She’s just about to unlock her car when Clarke calls out to her and jogs down the walk, something in her hand.

 

“I’m so embarrassed, but it seems Ellie managed to slip this off you last time you were here. She’s like a raccoon…loves everything shiny.”

 

Lexa smiles as she takes the stolen screwdriver, undeterred by the sticky fingers in the slightest.  “No problem. She’s a curious little thing.”

 

“She’s something.”

 

In as long as she can remember, Lexa finds herself fighting the exhaustion dripping from her bones just for another moment with the mom with beautiful eyes and a silly toddler. She leans against her car and crosses her arms as Clarke smiles and waves and disappears back into the cozy house, leaving Lexa grinning like a fool and hoping, against protocol, for the next non-emergency call.


	4. Small Town Gal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings of past abuse come into play this chapter. Please read with caution!

2014 | New York City

 

Clarke knows something is wrong, immediately. The instinct was so strong it’d woken her from sleep. Or perhaps it was the searing pain in her belly and the wooziness in her head. It hurts to sit up and the tears are immediate. It’s not the pain, though, that draws tears from her eyes, it’s the sudden, immense fear.

She’s alone, without a car, in the middle of the night with severe contractions that are here much too soon. There’s something wrong, she knows that much. None of the books talk about a shortness of breath, shaking from head to toe, or the sweat that trickles down her forehead and stings her eyes. She’d never been a sweater, not even during the afternoon July soccer games of her youth.

Every step from her bedroom to the kitchen is a struggle, and if she had the energy, she would berate herself for leaving her phone on the counter last night. She’s clinging to the wall by the time she rounds the corner to the dining enclave. Her legs shake so violently that her knees visibly wobble no matter how hard she tries to steady herself, and she wishes more than anything that Raven wasn’t away at that music festival.

Her arm and hand shines with sweat that catches in the moonlight when she reaches out and swipes up her phone. She sinks to the floor, cringing at the pain in her belly, gripping it tight as if that will stop her baby from coming two months too early. Her phone rings once.

“What’s wrong–”

“Mommy–”

“Clarke, sweetheart, hang-up and call 911. Ask for an ambulance. Then, call me back. Okay? I love you, you’re okay. It’s gonna be okay. Call now.”

Clarke doesn’t wonder how her mother had known. Perhaps it was the chief of surgery in her. Perhaps it was just the mother in her. Perhaps it was the shake in her daughter’s voice. Clarke doesn’t question it, but she feels a centimeter of calm creep through the overbearing panic at the steady guidance of her mother over the phone.

 

 

Six hours and one thousand miles later, Abby’s guidance is by her bedside. Her face is a practiced calm, but Clarke can see the concern in the corner of her eyes, in the steady stroke of her hand through Clarke’s hair.

“Do you know who it’s from?”

Clarke closes her eyes, but the tears come anyways. Her mouth contorts in an attempt not to cry as she nods and sinks lower in the bed, ashamed, angry and scared.

“Was it Jack?”

Another timid nod.

“When?”

“ _Mommy_ –“

“I know, honey. I know.” Abby stands to kiss her daughter’s head. “We need to let your doctor know when you might have contracted it. We need to know how long the baby has been exposed.”

Clarke sniffs, wet and congested. She wipes her nose on the back of her IV-less hand and shrugs. “A month ago.”

“Before you broke-up.”

“Yeah.”

“And you haven’t been with him since?”

“No.”

“Anyone else?”

“ _No._ ”

“Okay.” Abby makes to move, but Clarke grabs her arm and bores into her with big, wet eyes.

“Mommy.” Clarke’s voice quivers, her chin shakes. There’s pleading in her eyes that breaks Abby’s heart. “Is she going to be okay?”

“You’re going to be a nurse, Clarke. You know that syphilis during pregnancy is extremely dangerous, _but,”_ she adds quickly when Clarke begins to whimper, “we’ve caught it, and you’re on antibiotics. There are no outward signs of fetal distress–“

“No,” Clarke cuts her off with a shake of her head, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I need my mom right now. Not a surgeon.”

Abby sits back down and draws Clarke’s hand into her own. “We’re going to do everything we can to make sure that you’re both going to be okay.”

Tears well up in Clarke’s eyes once more. She grips onto her mother’s hand and fixes on her. “I don’t care about me. Whatever you do, you have to protect her. Okay? She’s all I have.”

“Clarke–“

“She my _world_. And I don’t even know her yet. Whatever happens, she has to be okay.”  

 

 

2017 | Polis

 

Clarke runs her hands over her face, exhausted to say the least. Fear and frustration wracks her tired frame, but having completely spent all her reserves, the only she can do is sit in the waiting room and try not to count the seconds.

This place shouldn’t feel so foreign, but somehow, with her on the other side of it all, it does. She’s never noticed the outdated People magazines that have over half their pages missing until she’s picking one up, then another, in a fruitless attempt to stay distracted.

The seats squeak and the tile floors could use a good scrub. Nothing about this hospital feels like the sacred ground she’d come so used to claiming with confidence every morning. Nothing about this hospital feels right.

Her leg is bouncing up and down uncontrollably, and although she notices it, there’s not much she can do to stop it. She’d sent Octavia and Raven off long ago, needing to be alone. She thought that’s what she’d wanted. Maybe some privacy to cry a little and struggle to breathe. A little bit of quiet to get her thoughts in order.

“Clarke?”

She thought she’d wanted to be alone until that voice shows her just how incredibly wrong she’d been.  

Lexa looks as exhausted as Clarke feels, walking over to her with a slight limp in her step. Her arms are covered in soot and her hair, though pulled back, flies in every direction. She looks awful, and somehow, she’s exactly the thing Clarke needed to see.

A hug feels out of place, even in this moment of desperation. They hardly know each other. If anything, Lexa is Ellie’s friend, not hers. In any other situation, the notion would make her laugh. A grown woman the friend of her toddler’s. Tonight, the thought of her little girl makes her throat ache with how hard it constricts.  Not knowing what to do, she stands stock still as the fire captain crosses to her, concern etched across that pretty face.

“What’s going on?”

Unaware of how close to tears she’d been until now, there’s not much Clarke can say without running the risk of breaking down into sobs. “It’s Ellie,” is what she manages in a tight voice that threatens to crumble with each syllable.

A hug feels out of place and yet, when Lexa wraps her up in one, it’s the only thing she could have possibly wanted.

Lexa is deceivingly solid. She stands tall and broad, an athlete’s body graced by exquisite genetics, but somehow she’d always seemed to drown in her personal protective equipment, or PPE, as she’d learned it was called. She was strong, but lean, tough, but lithe and feminine.  Now, in just jeans and a fire station t-shirt, strong arms wrapped around her back, Clarke realizes just how much of Lexa there is. Just how steady Lexa is. But perhaps it has nothing to do with her physique at all.

Lexa’s hands linger on Clarke’s shoulders, and Clarke is grateful for her calming presence. Every bit of her feels like it’s one violent shake away from breaking apart completely.

“What happened? Are you alright?”

Clarke nods, then shakes her head. She’s alright, technically, but she’s not _alright._ “It was a truck on Spruce. Ran right through the red light. Hit right–“ She stops for a breath that threatens to do her in for good. She wipes at the tears that form in the corners of her eyes. “He hit us pretty hard, and Ellie took the brunt of it.”

“Oh, Clarke. God, I’m so sorry. Is she…” Lexa shakes her head and looks away, and Clarke is almost shocked to see the immediate tears that form in the firefighter’s eyes.

“Lexa?”

“I’m sorry.” Lexa waves her hand through the air and wipes her cheek on her shoulder, effectively pressing more soot into her already grey face.  “It’s been a long day, and the thought of that sweet, little one…she’s such a good kid.”

Clarke smiles. “She is. She adores you, you know.”

“She’s a good kid,” Lexa repeats, almost bashful now, still wiping at her cheeks. “How is she?”

“Probably fine,” Clarke admits, and it’s like relief washing through her. She hasn’t said that out loud yet, and although she knew it before, something about reassuring someone else with that news makes it feel real. “She didn’t show any external signs of trauma, but she was in pain. And when they’re that small, any kind of blunt-force trauma can wreak havoc on their internal systems.”

“So they’re, what? Checking for bleeding? MRI? CT? X-Rays? Full work-up?”

Clarke can’t help but grin a little. “What do you know about a full work-up?”

“I’m a paramedic. Well, I was. Am. I was the station paramedic my first few years. I still know a thing or two.”

“Smart and brave. I imagine you’re quite the catch.”

“Not really. I can be quite the pain.”

“Oh, I can only imagine.”

They share a smile, and for the briefest of moments, Clarke is released of her crippling worry. Lexa is distracting. She’s charming and soft and quiet and so different from anyone or anything else in Clarke’s life. She’s a big flashing warning sign, and yet Clarke can’t help but gravitate.

“Can I wait with you?”

“It could be a while.”

“I’ve got time.”

 

 

They sit in on again off again silence. It takes several iterations for Clarke to realize that Lexa speaks up each time Clarke’s leg starts to bounce. The realization is warm and big in her chest, and as hard as she tries not to be, Clarke is endeared. She sneaks glances when she can, taking in a new piece of Lexa each time.

Guilt hits her like a freight train when her eyes land on the swollen wrist and the dried blood on her forearm. She takes the limb without asking, gently inspecting the bulging joint and looking for the source of the dried blood. “What happened?”

Lexa winces when she tries to pull her hand away, earning a pointed glare from the nurse. “I fell.”

“You fell?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it?”

Lexa nods.

“What were you doing?”

“You know, just, walking.”

“Walking where?”

“Through a building.”

Clarke studies her. “Was this building on fire?”

“It might have been.”

“Did you get fluids?”

Lexa just pinches her lips together, earning this time a groan and an eye roll from the pretty nurse.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“I might as well fix you up while we wait.”

“Don’t you need to be here when they have news?”

“They have my pager. And I could use the distraction.”

 

 

Clarke can’t think straight with Lexa’s eyes glued to her every movement, but eventually habit takes over and her hands know what to do.

“How did this happen?”  She squeezes the building fluid in Lexa’s wrist gently and measures the pain in the grimaces Lexa attempts to restrain.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it will undercut my charm and heroics.”

“Oh, is that right?”  

Lexa grins and Clarke can tell she’s pleased with herself. It makes holding back her own grin that much harder.

“I was carrying a baby out of a fire.”

“Really?”  Clarke’s brow goes from playful to concerned in the blink of an eye.

Lexa frowns, almost guiltily. “No. It was a beloved pet dog.”

“Oh, well that–”

“No, I’m sorry. That was a lie too. It was a lizard.”

Clarke stifles a laugh. “A lizard?”

“Yes. And it started crawling around. Honestly, I thought it was dead at first, but the little boy who asked me to go back in for it seemed so worried, so I brought out the limp little thing anyways. As I was coming down the stairs, it moved, and I sort of…freaked out.”

This time, Clarke does laugh. “And you fell.”

“And I fell.”

“You banged this up pretty good.” Clarke wraps the wrist and snaps an ice pack over her knee, activating the cold. She’s handing it over and telling Lexa to keep it elevated when a young woman appears in the doorway.

“Clarke?”

Clarke stands so quickly it makes Lexa’s head spin. It takes the fire fighter a second to catch on.

“How is she?” Clarke frets and her playful, confident energy is gone.

“She’s going to be just fine. A slight bone contusion on rib six on the right side. She’ll be sore for a couple of weeks and should avoid any rough-housing. But she’s going to be just fine.”

“No bleeding?”

“None at all.”

Clarke laughs straight into a sob and doesn’t mind so much when Lexa’s arms are around her again.

 

 

Somehow, Lexa ends up in the small exam room in a part of the hospital that is eerily quiet. She makes note of this before she can stop herself, but Clarke gives her one of those smiles Lexa’s made a habit of collecting, and tells her the peds wing is always quiet at night. It makes sense once it’s explained to her--of course children sleep at night--but somehow it only discombobulates Lexa further.

She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, or any part of her for that matter. As relieved as she is to see that Ellie is okay, she shouldn’t be here. Providing what little comfort to Clarke that she could while the fretting mother waited was one thing. Intruding on this little family reunion was another thing entirely. But somehow, she’d let herself follow the mother who occasionally looked back at her for reassurance, and ended up in this room.

It’s strange and upsetting to see the blossoming purple bruise over the toddler’s right eye. There’s no world that makes sense to Lexa in which little babies hurt. It’s even more surreal and discomforting to see just how disoriented Ellie is with what can only be harsh sedatives still coursing through her blood.

“To keep her still during the CT,” the nurse, the one that wasn’t also mother and leaning over her child, explained when Lexa frowned at the strange lilt of the little girl’s head. She has no idea what she’s doing, but her feet keep her in the room until the mother is shouldering her toddler not unlike the way Lexa had been trained to carry people out of burning buildings. Her feet carry her all the way back down the hall, and pause at the front desk where Clarke signs out. They carry her out into the chilly night air, and still she doesn’t know what it is she’s doing as she hovers behind Clarke at the curb.

It’s not until Clarke turns to her, eyes wide and glassy, that she realizes why this is exactly where she needs to be.

“You don’t have a working car, do you?”

Clarke shakes her head and her shoulders slump further than Lexa thought they ever could. She doesn’t know _why_ she cares so much, just that she does, and it hurts to see Clarke feeling so lost. “I do,” she offers quietly, gently, so as not to scare off this opportunity she has to be helpful. “I’d be happy to take you home.”

 

 

She doesn’t have a carseat, but Clarke rectifies that simply by sliding her child into her lap and buckling them in together. They’re not even out of the parking lot before Clarke is murmuring quietly, and Lexa realizes the toddler is already falling asleep.

Clarke doesn’t talk much the first five minutes of their drive. Neither does Lexa. They’re both exhausted and Lexa feels the harshities of her day creeping into the fascia of her muscles with each passing moment. She knows she’s massaged at her neck one too many stop lights in a row when the nurse, the mother, maybe both, looks over at her and frowns.

“Are you sore?”

Lexa does her best to give her a reassuring smile, but on days like these it’s difficult to muster up the energy, and she knows she hasn’t quite made it come together when that pretty frown deepens. “Been a long day,” she adds, not meaning for it to come out quite so hoarse and voiceless.

She doesn’t want to say much more, now’s not the time, but there’s this thing Clarke does, Lexa has come to notice, where she looks right through her and sees everything she’s not supposed to see. “A mom thing,” Clarke had told her at the front door what felt like ages ago.

“I thought you were at the hospital for your wrist, but you weren’t were you?”

Clarke’s voice is so soft and round. It’s easy to listen to, and it’s warm, and Lexa can see a little better why Clarke’s child is so easily soothed by her mother. In some ways, Clarke makes Lexa miss her own mother a little more poignantly.

“One of my rookies,” Lexa finds herself saying before she can stop. “I sent him in and he wasn’t ready. I just wanted to make sure he was going to make it through the night okay.” It’s all she wants to say, and for Clarke, it seems to be enough. Clarke nods and lets her head fall back to the seat, running her hand through her daughter’s hair.

“It’s hardest when it feels like we’re solely responsible for their well being, isn’t it?”

For a split second of a fleeting moment, Lexa glances over and feels like maybe she’s seeing Clarke truly for the first time; what it’s like to be the leader every second of every day, responsible for the precious life in your hands at all times; what it’s like to not get to hand the baton off and shovel over some of that responsibility when your shift is done There are no shifts in motherhood, she supposes.

She takes in the street lights bouncing off of the blonde pair, Clarke’s slim fingers combing through the soft strands of hair, the bob of her throat as she breathes and swallows.  Clarke is stunning in that soft, mundane kind of way that Lexa never knew existed until the little, mint-colored craftsman on the corner with the pretty front yard and the sweet little family, became a staple of her weekdays.

“I’m not sure how you manage it,” Lexa says, almost to herself.

Clarke turns just her head and smiles, tired and ever so soft. It threatens to take Lexa’s breath away, so she grips the steering wheel harder and focuses on the road.

“When I was pregnant with Ellie, I came really close to losing her. I was seven months pregnant and completely overwhelmed. I had no idea what I was doing.”

Clarke speaks in hushed tones and leans in to kiss her baby’s head every once in a while.

“I was excited to meet her, but I wasn’t ready. I was supposed to have more time, but I woke up with flu-like symptoms and that was that.” Lexa can feel it when Clarke’s gaze returns to her. “We can’t always control what happens to the ones we care about, Lexa.”

Lexa smiles, and shakes her head. “You went into premature labor, I sent a kid into a fire way over his experience level. I think there’s a bit of a disconnect between those two scenarios. You were sick. I was stupid.”

Clarke hums. “I wasn’t just sick, actually. And I’m probably going to regret telling you this in the morning, so I’m not sure what I’m doing, but--”

“You don’t have to--”

“I think you need to hear it.”

Lexa nods, slowly, gently, wanting Clarke to know that she has nothing but respect for the young, single mother.

With a breath of what she assumes is immense courage, Clarke lays herself bare.  “I wasn’t sick. I contracted syphilis. She came two months early, struggling just to get air into her tiny body because I was irresponsible and reckless and slept with a man I should have left months before. I’m her mother, and my carelessness brought her into this world, suffering and in pain.”

“Clarke--”

“No, it’s okay. I’ve come a long way since then. I’ve grown up, dedicated my life to keeping her safe and happy, but sometimes, bad things just happen, no matter how hard we try. Sometimes you make a mistake, acknowledge it, and try to do better next time, but trucks still blow through red lights and plow into cars with sleeping babies in them. You can’t always prevent bad things from happening. You just try not beat yourself up too much, and take each moment as they come.”

Incapable of saying anything worthy of Clarke’s limitless intelligence and grace, Lexa just nods, swallowing hard over the thank you she wants to give, but can’t yet. They make the turn onto Clarke’s street in silence. Lexa’s brakes creak as she comes to a stop in the driveway, headlights bouncing off the front of the house. “I’ll wait til you get in so you can see,” she murmurs.

Clarke smiles at her like she knows that Lexa can’t say what she really wants to right now. Somehow, Clarke always seems like she knows.

“Thank you for everything tonight, Lexa. I really appreciate it.”

“I’m glad she’s okay.”

They say their goodnights and Clarke is halfway up the stairs of her porch when Lexa shoots out of her seat and sticks herself awkwardly out of her car door.

“Clarke?”

Clarke stops and turns, illuminated by Lexa’s headlights, but caught in the shadows of the sleeping little thing on her chest. Lexa’s breath...it eludes her again, and she licks her lips in an effort to draw words out.

“Thank you. For what you said. About...my guy.”

She doesn’t know how Clarke manages it, but somehow this smile she gets from her is even sweeter than the last. Another talley adds itself to Lexa’s count and she greedily collects this smile like all the others.

“Your guy will be okay, Lexa.”

“And if he’s not?”

“If he’s not...you take a deep breath and wait for tomorrow. New day, fresh slate. We try our best for them and that’s all we can really do. Try not to think too much. Get some sleep, okay?”

 

* * *

 

A tiny knee to the groin is how Clarke’s Saturday morning begins. Not unlike many of her Saturdays, Clarke wakes to the distinct twinge of a foreign body part shoving into soft tissue, and can’t help but smile at the familiarity of it. Her baby may be a little banged up, but some things never change.

She is excessively gentle when she sits up and slides Ellie off of her, careful of her bruised little ribs and the new purpling on her left arm. Awake every hour to check on her, Clarke had found more and more bruises beginning to blossom on her baby’s pale skin as the night worn on. Eventually, she’d forced herself to stop looking for them knowing it wouldn’t do her any good.

She’d inspected the scans herself. No bleeding, no inflammation, not a bone out of place; just a little dinged up... and the excess of a mother’s worry. Still, she moves around her sleeping little thing like a soldier in a minefield, each movement carefully placed to create as little disruption as possible. 

She’s on the toilet when her conversation with Lexa the night before comes back to her like an emotional hangover. Her stomach flips and her blood rushes to her ears.. It’s panic and regret, and she doesn’t know why she cares so much what the firefighter thinks of her, but for some reason it matters. It matters, and Clarke can’t take back the piece of her scariest, darkest secret she’d shared in all of its shameful glory.

She pulls herself off the toilet with a groan and closes the lid, saving the flush for later when her baby isn’t sleeping. She washes her hands for too long, getting lost in the replays of the conversation in her head, until her skin burns and she remembers to turn the water off.

Clarke tells herself it really shouldn’t make a difference what Lexa thinks of her. Clarke is a good mother, she knows that. She has devoted every second of her days to learning how to be a good mother. A hiccup in her past, a mistake that was hardly hers alone to bear, doesn’t negate all of that, nor does its late night confession, voiced quietly in a kind firefighter’s car.

But the thing is...Lexa is sweet. Unbearably so. She’s gentle and quiet when she’s not being delightfully silly or endearingly cock sure of herself. She’s brave and selfless, everyone’s favorite Polis resident. The Maine coastal town is small, but not small enough to make that an insignificant superlative. She’s all of those things, and then some, and so Clarke finds herself caring what the firefighter thinks of her as she pushes eggs around a frying pan and replays their conversation once again.

The endless drone of it, the dissection of every word and the attempt to remember the details of Lexa’s fleeting reaction, only shuts off once Ellie has awoken, breakfast has been consumed, and they’re into their third Disney movie of the day. It’s a relief when the effects of Ellie’s pain medicine wanes slightly enough to give way to her toddler’s personality; personality Clarke found herself missing fiercely in the handful of hours it had been absent.

Every bit of Clarke hates what happened. If she wasn’t thinking about and regretting what she admitted to Lexa, she was seeing those headlights over and over again, reliving the crash every second until she closed her eyes and forced it away. Instantly after the chaos of the initial impact had muted down to a ringing in her ears and lights in her face, she’d known that everything was likely okay. Ellie was responsive and reaching for her. She was answering her questions, pupils reacting to the movements of her fingers, little feet reacting to the taps to her knees. She’d very likely been mostly unharmed, and yet, Clarke still hadn’t taken a full breath since the accident.

She’s nauseated by what she could have lost, but there’s a part of her, a small part of her that she tries not to focus on, that is grateful for the rest and the time with her little girl. Too often, Clarke found herself standing in her kitchen at night, Ellie recently put down, the house locked up, the dishes tossed in the sink, wondering when their time would come. She was sure that her calm was right around the corner, waiting to offer up to them time they never had, help they always needed, and a chance to slow things down long enough for her to catch up to the life speeding past her in a blur.

Ellie wiggles in her lap, head knocking against her collar bones, turning to look up at her and offer a tiny-toothed and sleepy grin. Clarke smiles back at her, running her hand over Ellie’s warm head, leaning down to kiss a chubby cheek. She was made for those smiles and that hair and those cheeks; literally forged to exist for moments like these. She can’t bring herself to hate the time this accident has given them. She can’t look at the bruises on her little girl without wanting to heave, but she will never resent these perfect hours on the couch together, wrapped up in blankets, watching The _Princess and the Frog_ for the umpteenth time.  

“I love you, Ellie bean,” she whispers into the back of Ellie’s head, following up with a kiss, and then another because she can. “You’re my entire world.”

Ellie looks up at her and giggles, pressing her little hand into Clarke’s cheek as if to say, ‘You’re mine, mommy.’

 

 

They get five days together before the usual suspects show up with too much food and too many new toys. Ellie is in heaven, and Clarke’s reminders to keep still are constant. The company is a relief, though. Octavia and Raven are just the medicine Ellie needed having already grown sick of being in Clarke’s lap and the subject of her undivided attention. As for Clarke, the distraction gave her time to pick-up around the house and deal with loose ends.

By week two, Ellie’s pain has dwindled considerably, but Clarke still doesn’t go back to work. She’s got another four weeks of paid vacation left in her year, and she intends to use as much of it as her daughter needs. At home, Ellie is confined to her bed, the couch, or Clarke’s arms where she’s safe and cared for. The same could not be said for a chaotic daycare filled with wild, reckless children with sharp elbows, and limbs that flailed. Home is safer, is what she tells herself. Home is where Ellie needs to be, she’s convinced of it. It’s for Ellie’s health, and _not_ because Clarke utterly terrified to have Ellie out of her sights for more than a few minutes at a time.

Impressively, Octavia and Raven don’t tire of their daily visits, and Clarke is grateful for it. When Abby and Wells show up to check on the little one, bringing Clarke groceries and a much needed bottle of wine, Clarke couldn’t be happier to have her house full. The accident had weighed on her far heavier and longer than she’d anticipated. Her conversation with Lexa lingered too, and as such, Clarke found herself completely off-kilter and out of sorts more often than not.

Her routine was shot to oblivion as well. She fell asleep later and later, unable to wind down early enough for a decent night’s sleep (not that she ever knew what a decent night’s sleep was like). She’d anticipated some much needed catch-up. Instead, she found herself pouring everything she had into Ellie; Ellie’s recovery, Ellie’s comfort, Ellie’s happiness. The dishes piled up, the grass grew, the weeds flourished, emails went unread, her car remained at the impound, and none of it mattered. None of it was remotely as important as her child.

That had always been the case for Clarke. Ellie came first, no matter what. But it was as if telling Lexa that dirty part of her past had regurgitated all of the things she hated most about herself as a mother, and the down time let her marinate in it. She was too young, too busy, stretched too thin. Ellie was only in two extracurriculars as opposed to the handful of her peers. She was dropped off earlier at daycare and stayed later. She had one parent as opposed to the two-parent nuclear families that were more common than not in their small, coastal town. Clarke had planned to knock so many items off her to-do list, but instead, it became all about making up for her motherly shortcomings that all the sudden seemed to hang over her like her own personal storm cloud.

 

 

“How are you, sweetheart?”

She’s in the kitchen, elbow deep in sudsy water when her mother joins her at the sink, wordlessly taking up a sponge and a plate while Clarke contemplates the question.

“I’m okay. In a bit of a strange place, I think, but...okay.”

“That seems about right.”

“Is it obvious?”

“I think to anyone else, it’d seem like the natural stress that comes along with what you two have been dealing with these past couple of weeks.”

“But you know better.”

Abby smiles. “That I do. Would you like to talk about it?”

Clarke’s hands stall with a cup still in them. Mindlessly she twists the sponge inside of it.

“Do you remember when I went into labor, and I called you, and you immediately knew something was wrong?”

“Vaguely.”

“You did. I said your name and that was all you needed. You told me to hang up and call 911.”

“A mother’s instinct.”

“Exactly.” Clarke drops the cup and looks at her mother. “What if I don’t have that?”

“Why on earth would you think that?”

“I just. I look at you and what we had growing up. We spent so much more time together than Ellie and I do. There were so many more moments we shared. What if that’s where that instinct is honed? What if I’m not able to keep her safe because we don’t have what _we_ had?”

“Clarke, honey, that’s simply just not true.”

“Which part?”

“I love you more than anything, but I wasn’t perfect. My career was roaring when I got pregnant with you. It took twelve years for it to slow down enough for us to really get to know each other.”

“That can’t be right. I remember--”

“You remember the highlights. We always do. But day to day, honey, it was your father who knew you like the back of his hand. And a nanny and a cook and a team of incredible adults who helped me keep some semblance of a normal childhood for you. To be honest, Clarke, I am in awe of you. I am amazed by your ability to balance your career and your family. You do it much better than I did when you were Ellie’s age. I regret not spending more time with you when you were younger, but I eventually saw that regret coming, and I did what I could with what time I had to make up for those lost moments.”

Clarke furrows and goes to speak, then thinks, then repeats. She shakes her head, scrunching her eyes at her mother. “I don’t remember it that way.”

“Then maybe I did a pretty good job of making it up to you. That’s all we can ever do as parents.”

“So that instinct…”

“It’s learned. Practiced. Crafted through years of navigating the ins and outs of your child and her interactions with the world. It’s not so much an instinct as it is a study. The more pretentious of folks might call it an art. Either way, it’s something you build up over time.”

Clarke hums, a nod comes slow and hesitant.

“I have to ask, honey. What’s brought all of this on? You haven’t been this unsure of yourself for...years.”

Clarke laughs. “I’m always unsure of myself. I’m twenty-eight year old, single, trying to raise a toddler, and working nearly fifty hours a week. How could I possibly _not_ be unsure of myself? I’m bound to be getting things wrong.”

“We all get things wrong sometimes, Clarke. That’s part of life. It’s okay to struggle and mess up.”

“Not when it hurts her,” Clarke mumbles, a new cup in her hand.

“I’m sorry?”

Clarke looks up at her and sighs. “I slept with an abusive man who I knew was absolutely toxic at six months pregnant, and one month later, it nearly got her killed.” She bites her cheek and quickly looks away when she feels the tears come on. They don’t fall, they rarely do these days (she’s tough, she’ll give herself that much), but they threaten to linger the longer she stands there, so she drops the cup into the sink and busies herself with wiping down the counters.

She scrubs hard at nothing in particular until her arm aches and her hair is falling out of it’s already messy top knot. Abby is silent for a while, but Clarke can feel her eyes on her.

“Sweetheart.” Abby’s hand is gently on Clarke’s elbow, slowing her scrub to a stop. Still, Clarke doesn’t look at her. “I’m a little confused as to where all this is coming from. That was three years ago.”

Clarke whips around, so many things barely restrained behind the hard, angry set of her face. “My child,” she whispers, harsh and outraged at herself, “my _two-year-old,_ has a bruise on her bone. Her _bone._ Where do you _think_ this is all coming from?”

“Clarke, honey, a mild bone contusion is hardly something to be so upset about. You know that. Things could have been much worse. That truck was going way too fast. Hit any other way, and we might be shopping for wheelchair, or worse.”

“I _know,”_ Clarke hisses. “That’s my point! Two years on this planet and twice I’ve put her life at risk. One for each year she’s lived and breathed.”

Abby’s stare is unreadable and penetrating. Clarke wants to shrink away from it, but at the same time, she can see Abby’s gears turning and a part of her wants whatever wisdom she knows is coming.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, Abby nods. “You’re right.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come here.” She takes Clarke by the forearm and leads her through the door in the kitchen to the garage.

“What are we doing?”

Without any indication of where this is going, Abby flips on the fan, washing them in sound. She crosses her arms and her eyebrow hikes up, and she nods at Clarke. Clarke just shakes her head, growing aggravated by the second.

“You’re right,” Abby repeats. “You’ve put her life in danger twice now.”

“I thought this was supposed to be a pep talk.”

Abby shrugs. “We’re speaking truths, aren’t we? Twice, Ellie has come in harm’s way under your care. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Clarke gapes at her mother, blinking hard and shaking her head. “I--I--”

“Well, go on.”

Clarke scoffs, torn between confused and enraged. “Well, for starters, fuck you,” she spits. “You have no _idea_ what I go through to raise my daughter. You had a six-figure salary and a husband and nannies. I have me! Day to day, it’s just _me_ , and I’m doing the best that I can!”

“Then why has she been in this situation twice now? How is that doing your best, Clarke?”

Clarke guffaws, practically shaking with indignation. “Bad things happen to everyone! Wrong time, wrong place. Luck, fate, I don’t know. I’m not omnipotent! I couldn’t have known he had syphilis! I was pregnant and scared and I just wanted him to stop hitting me. You don’t know what that’s like...having to make that kind of decision. You have no clue.” Clarke’s pacing now, angrily wiping at her wet cheeks. “How could I have known he was going to give me the one STD that could be fatal to my unborn child? I couldn’t have known!”

Clarke misses the way Abby’s throat bobs and her facade slips. She misses the way Abby takes a deep breath, and steadies her course. Clarke plows ahead, impassioned and ablaze.

“And the truck! That fucking truck! What an irresponsible asshole! I couldn’t have known he would run a red light. I looked both ways. I went on the green. I...jesus, I couldn’t have known!”

When Abby stays silent, simply staring, Clarke stops in place and throws up her hands. “I’m doing my fucking best! It wasn’t my fault!”

There. Abby exhales, long, slow, measured. She nods. “Again.”

“What?”

“Say it again.”

Clarke shakes her head, furrow deepening. “I--,” and then it dawns on her. Her eyes go glassy and her lip quivers. She bites down on it so hard she can feel it crunch. She shakes her head again, shaking a tear lose.

“Sweetheart,” Abby encourages, soft and gentle. Nothing like before. “Say it again.”

A trembling breath in through her nose, Clarke finally relents.  “It wasn’t my fault,” she whispers.

“You couldn’t have known.”

Clarke nods, shouldering at the tears on her cheeks.

“Come here.” Abby pulls her into a hug, working her hands up Clarke’s back, threading into her hair, scratching at her scalp. Abby had said she hadn’t been there during Clarke’s childhood, but this...this Clarke remembers like it was yesterday. She burrows her face into the crook of Abby’s neck and grips at her shoulder blades.

“You couldn’t have known, Clarke,” her mother repeats. “No one could have known what was going to happen. Not then, not now.” She pulls back and cups Clarke’s face in her hands. “You are an _incredible_ mother. The best that I know. Ellie will get hurt again, it’s what kids do. She will get lost in a mall, or fall off her bike or not wear her seat belt. She’ll get the flu, and drink too much at her first party if she’s anything like you.” Abby smiles and Clarke chuckles, wiping at her nose. “Kids are unpredictable in the best and worst ways. When they hurt, sometimes it will be your fault. But most times, you’ll be the only thing that keeps the hurt away.”

“I love her so much, mom,” Clarke sighs. “I’ve never known a love like this before. It’s…”

“Overwhelming?”

Clarke lets out a tired, cathartic laugh. “So overwhelming.”

Abby’s hands remain on Clarke’s cheeks as her mother studies her, something clearly still plaguing the older Griffin’s mind.

“You can ask,” Clarke says, nodding in her mother’s hands. “Whatever it is.”

Abby hesitates.

“What is it?”

“I’m just going to dive in, and if it’s too much, you can tell me to stop.”

Clarke nods.

“I didn’t know that he.” Abby stops, sucking in a sharp breath of air. “Did he force you to sleep with him in exchange for not hitting you?”

“Oh.” Clarke shakes her head, peeling her mother’s hands off of her face and holding them in her own. She gives them a squeeze before dropping them. “No, it wasn’t...it wasn’t quite like that. It’s just that when we were...if we were having sex, he was preoccupied. And, in theory, not angry and resentful. So it was better than the alternative.”

“Clarke--” It comes out of Abby like a tortured apology, and Clarke can’t stand Abby’s guilt. They’d had this conversation before, and it wasn’t one Clarke wanted to dredge up.

“He didn’t hit often, mommy,” she murmurs. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I could kill him,” Abby whispers, and there’s an edge to her voice that has Clarke not doubting her mother for a second.

“Water under the bridge,” Clarke assures her.

The memories still stung, still led to sleepless nights, and involuntary flinching, and a distrust she wishes she could kick, but mostly the ache of it all was a dull, fleeting throb that was absent more often than not. It...he, his memory... was nothing she couldn’t handle.

“He’s old news, I just...the accident got me stuck in my head for a bit, that’s all. But he’s gone now, and life is good, okay? Don’t worry. Ellie has you, and the girls, and Wells, and--” she almost trips on her words when ‘Lexa’ nearly comes tumbling out of her mouth. Her stomach flips oddly knowing that her conversation with the firefighter is mostly what spurred all this. Yet, it’s not anger that does somersaults in her stomach. If she were reckless and had it in for herself, she might almost call it a longing. There had been so much trust and gratitude coursing through her the moment she revealed that intimate piece of her life to Lexa. Admittedly, it had been nice to have someone, even for a brief moment, that made her feel that way. It’d freed up her inhibitions, punched a temporary hole in the flank of her sentry guards. She’d felt vulnerable and human, and accepted for it all the same.

It’d knocked her off course, sent her into a tizzy, and it was definitely, most certainly, never going to happen again.

Abby dips to catch her eyes, and smiles at her. “Shall we go back inside?”

Clarke scratches at her neck, rattled by her thoughts, and nods, following her mother back to the door.

“I’m sorry to have egged you on back there, honey. I just felt like you needed to hear it from yourself to believe it. It wasn’t your fault, and you are a wonderful mother. I know that, Ellie knows that. Everyone knows that, and you should too.”

Clarke smiles, but it’s weak and distracted. Of the adults most important in Ellie’s life, the handful of humans Clarke categorized as Ellie’s _people,_ a firefighter she barely knew had very nearly made the list, and it’d come seemingly out of nowhere.

Abby’s hand on her back makes her flinch, and she hates the way her reaction makes Abby yank her hand away like she, or maybe Clarke, has been burned.

“Clarke, god. I’m sorry, I forgot--”

“No, no it wasn’t that.” Clarke gives her mother a tight smile and grabs her hand, giving it a squeeze. “I was just lost in thought. Wasn’t expecting it.”

Abby nods, but Clarke can see that she’s not convinced. She can’t worry about it right now, though. She kisses her mother on the cheek and sends her into the living room so that she can think.

Lexa is exceptionally kind and undeniably charming, but she is far from someone Clarke knows and trusts well enough to put so much stock in. She can’t be the woman Clarke thinks about first thing in the morning and whether she’s said something the previous night to besmirch herself in Lexa’s mind. She can’t be the person who sends her into a tizzy wondering whether or not she’s made a good impression. She, definitively, cannot be the bookend to a very short list of people she trusts having in her daughter’s life.

Lexa had been a temporary comfort in a moment of a mother’s terror, and that’s where she had to stay.   

“Hey. You doing okay?” Raven’s voice draws her out of her thoughts, and she nods too quickly. She knows immediately that she’s been caught when Raven mimics her quick nod and grins. “Cool, cool. So, I’m going to ask again, and this time, you tell the truth, kay? Here we go, ready?”

“Oh my god. Raven--”

“Hey, Clarke. You doing okay?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Yes, Rae, thank you.”

“You said you wouldn’t lie.”

“Technically, I didn’t say _anything._ ”

“Clarke.”

“I just have a lot on my mind.” She turns back to the sink to finish up the abandoned dishes, but the sink is empty. “Did you--”

“Wells.”

“Ah.” Clarke smiles to herself. “Good man.”

“It’s true, he is. However, at this particular moment in time, I could care less.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Abby took you into the garage and turned the fan on. I’d call that a big deal.”

“I needed to work through some things.”

“Clearly.”

When Clarke doesn’t say more, Raven crosses her arms and cocks a brow, waiting. Clarke, endeared and exasperated, chuckles. “I worked through it, okay? What’s with the third degree?”

“I just want to make sure you’re doing alright. You have this tendency to not say anything’s wrong or ever ask for help...especially when you need it most. I’m just checking in.”

“I was in a bit of a spot, admittedly. But, I’m good now.”

“You sure?”

“Completely.”

“Alright. I’m choosing to trust you, Clarkey Poo. Don’t make me regret it.”

Clarke snorts and light-heartedly bumps into Raven as she passes. “What’d you do with my baby?”

“She’s asleep on the couch.”

“Already? ‘Frozen’s’ really that boring?”

“It’s a bunch of white people singing about ice, what do you think?”

 

* * *

 

Lexa’s afternoon at the station is slow, so she spends it in her office sifting through time cards and volunteer applications.  Her eyes are starting to cross, but really, she can’t complain. Her body feels like lead after the two weeks they’ve had. The alarm bell at station had been constant, and it exhausts Lexa just thinking about it. The down time, even if it means endless paperwork, is nice.

There’s always something about the beginning of summer that is uncompromising and relentless. People become reckless and overzealous in their enthusiasm to be outside. Children are out of school, running all over town, unattended and spurred on by the warm weather and the excitement of their summer break. The docks become overcrowded, the tourists congest the streets, the air conditioning in the small mom and pop shops can’t compete, giving way to fainting spells.  While everyone else welcomes the start of summer, Lexa hunkers down as best she can, and waits for the novelty, and thus the heightened stupidity, to pass.

“You look like shit, chewed up and spit back out.”

“That’s disgusting,” Lexa retorts, not bothering to look up from her paperwork to address the unannounced visit from her sister. Inviting herself in, Anya crosses the room and plops down in the chair opposite Lexa’s desk, throwing her feet up. She gives a defiant, but useless kick when Lexa leans over and shoves her feet off the desk.

“So, I just got back from that arson site over on Cherrywood.”

“The meat packing plant?”

“Mhm. Fucking obliterated. I’m still trying to workout the accelerant. I’ve never seen it before, but it must be fucking _potent._ ”

“I’m sure. It went up like a box of matches. Burned hotter than anything this summer.”

“You should see it now. It’s just ashes. An entire factory reduced to a pile of dust.”

Lexa slips her fingers under her glasses and massages her eyes, letting out a sigh. “You definitely think it’s arson?”

Anya snorts. “It has to be. They packaged meat there, it’s not like it was a NASA lab that had jet fuel sitting around. Whatever was used ate through steel like it was fucking marshmellow.”

“Acid?”

“Not flammable enough.”

Lexa hums. “Maybe.”

Anya kicks her feet back up, ignoring the return of Lexa’s shove. “What are you thinking?”

“They had livestock there, right? Fresh butchering practices or whatever?”

“Yeah. You know how flammable hay is? Talk about a butchering yard. The animal pins were the first to go.”

“Formic acid is flammable.”

“What?”

“Formic acid. It’s a preservative. Guess what it’s used on.”

“I won’t, but you can tell me.”

“Hay. And livestock feed.” Lexa grins, victorious, and Anya laughs.

“Why the hell do you know that?”  
  
“I was reading about it the other day.”

“About formic acid? Still begs the question...why?”  

“My stomach’s been acting up, so I was looking into what acids in food to stay away from.”

“You taking your Prilosec?”

“Yeah. It’s just stress.”

“You still upset about McGreevy?”

When Lexa shrugs, Anya slides her feet off the desk and sits forward. She’s not a touchy person, but she does grab Lexa’s forearm, giving it a squeeze. “He’s fine, Lex.”

Lexa doesn’t look up at her. “But he almost wasn’t.”

“But he is.”

“But what if he hadn’t been?”

“Then, that sucks. But it’s what happens. You run into burning buildings for a living, kid. Sometimes I wish you didn’t, but you do. And you’re really good at it. Sometimes people just get hurt.”

“The fire was too big for him.”

“That’s his job.”

“He’s just a kid.”

“That’s his _job._ Lexa, look at me.”  

Lexa sits back, throwing her hands behind her head. She gives a mighty stretch, her spine popping and cracking with each bend and flex of her back. All the while, Anya watches her with a subtle, but precise glare.

“You’re worried about something else.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m really not.”

Anya doesn’t buy it, but Lexa refuses to make it easy for her.

“Is it the girl?”

“What girl?”

“I don’t know. You’re obviously banging someone.”

Lexa snorts. “I’m not, actually. Trust me.”

“What happened to that girl from the docks from a few months ago?”

“Not gay.”

“But the flannel.”

“She’s owns that B&B up on the way to Douglas Mountain. Off the 114, the one with all the bear carvings and what not--”

“Oh yeah, near the lake?

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“Yeah. That’s hers.”

“That explains the flannel.”

“Yeah. She had a weird laugh anyways.”

“So it’s not a girl.”

“No.”

“You hurt?”

“No more than usual.”

“Then what’s going on? What’s got my baby sis sitting around googling formic acid? Other than the fact that she’s a giant nerd with a temperamental stomach.”

“Can’t be a nerd if you didn’t go to college.”

“Sure you can, brat. Don’t change the subject.”

“I just.” Lexa’s head falls to her hands and she combs her fingers through her hair. “I hate this time of year.”

“People go a little nuts, I get that.”

“And the volunteers and the rookies. I’m going through these applications, and I know that for every twenty that I go through, one of them’s going to wind up in the hospital, or in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, or dead. And not a single one of them has hit their thirties yet.”

“Lex--”

“People are so _stupid,_ Anya. Falling asleep with a lit cigarette, sticking their heads into weird shit and getting stuck. Touching a downed power line. That was just today. Then you’ve got people keeping vats of flammable acid in a hot meat plant.  I mean, just... _stupid._ Like, who the hell runs a fucking red light and hits a baby? In this town? Our speed limits max out at 40 miles an hour, and you take your shitty Ford F150 and blast through a red light going 65, because, what? You’re in a fucking hurry? A mother and her child gets T-boned because you’re in a god damn hurry? Unbelievable. Not a drop of alcohol in his system...just a whole lot of stupid fuckery.”

“I…” Anya shakes her head, completely confused. “You had me...and then you lost me.

“The start of the summer brings out the worst in people.”

“Well, yes, but I’m still trying to process your overly-excessive emotions. What happened with this truck?”

“‘Overly excessive’ is redundant.”

“Did a baby die?”

“Overly and excessive literally mean the same thing.”

“Lexa.”

“What?”

“Did you lose a baby? Is that what this is about?”

“What? No. No.” Lexa shakes her head, swallowing that awful thought away. “She’s fine.”

“Who died then?”

“Nobody died.”

“Was this today?”

“No, it was about...I don’t know, three weeks ago maybe.”

“Then why the hell are you so worked up?”

“Because they _could_ have died. McCreevy. The baby. They could have died and then they’d be gone. Just like that.”

Anya stares at her sister, dumbfounded by the new, strange behavior. “Welp.” She slaps her thighs and stands, “you’ve officially outdone yourself for world’s worst overthinker this time, Lex.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, and I’m just saying you need a drink.”

Lexa slides her glasses up her nose and nods. “You’re right.”

“I know am, now let’s go. Get your coat.”

 

 

The bar is packed. Five for Five Fridays will do that to the only decent bar around for miles. Situated in the middle of what the locals like to refer to as The ERD (Emergency Responder’s District -- a square mile of town that houses two police stations, the fire station and the hospital), Sal’s Bar is brimming to capacity.

“I thought this was supposed to chill me out,” Lexa shouts over the thrum of music and people.

“Let’s be honest, does anything ever really ‘chill you out?’”

“It’s so loud. I hate tourists.”

“Tourists generate your paycheck every week, kiddo. Stop glaring, you’ll scare them. Drink your beer.”

Lexa lasts all of thirty minutes at the bar before bailing for the exit. While the days are scorching hot, summer has yet to visit the crisp, Maine night air that wafts in from the sea smelling like road trips and memories. The breeze almost stings her lungs after the warm, stuffy bar, but it feels great where her uniform clings to the sweat on her skin.

She leans against the brick front of the building, sipping from her Coors as she watches the locals get off work and the tourists amble through the streets, looking for the ocean at sunset.

In all honesty, Lexa doesn’t truly mind the tourists. They generate revenue for their tiny town, they’re nice enough, and they do bring a sort of breath of fresh air to a town where everyone recognizes everyone. It’s nice to see new faces and hear new stories, but with their newness comes a sense of ignorance that clings to them like targets just asking for an accident to happen. It spurs on the locals too, leaving Lexa utterly spent and overworked.

A couple trips past her, drunk and happy, completely unaware of the rest of the world outside their embrace. Lexa catches the girl by the elbow and rights her when she trips over her own feet. Lexa smiles to herself when it only throws the couple further into their own bubble, giggling to themselves, no thank you given, but none needed. She watches them stumble down the sidewalk, unconcerned about the street they keep straying into. In this part of town, everybody walks, and there’s hardly a moving car in sight.

There’s hardly _any_ car in sight, actually. In deep contrast to the day and the bar bursting at the seams just behind her, it’s a quiet evening; still, even. If she steps away from the bustling bar, and strains ever so slightly, she thinks she can even hear the clinking of the masts in the harbor.  Her town is at its most beautiful like this. The sky exists in swaths of pink and orange and the deepest midnight blue there is. Song birds chirp occasionally from the young, green leaves beginning to specle the birches planted perfectly every five feet along the main road.

The bar breathes, bellows, and laughs behind her, lit up like a firefly against the deepening sky. A bass guitar starts up from within and it’s not long before it’s lost again in the ebb and flow of a Sox game.

“Oh come the fuck on! Slide!”

A collective roar erupts, and Lexa finds herself chuckling. She’s no longer new to this town, but she’ll never quite be one of them. Made up of good ale, long winters, salt saturated skin, and tempramental sports teams, the locals that fill Sal’s every week are a whole other beast Lexa will never quite be used to, but would quite literally die for all the same.

She’s got about an inch left to her beer that she swirls around in the bottom of the bottle. Her nails are dark with soot, her arms and feet ache, and she’s starting to nurse a bit of a headache from the dehydration of her long day, but she wouldn’t give up any of it for the world. The start of the summer is hard, it is, but there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for this town or nights like these.

She smiles to herself, about to throw back her last sip, when a woman across the street catches her eye. The tie-dye scrubs are what give her away. Lexa finishes off her beer and watches the two nurses make their way down the sidewalk, their conversation and laughter carried over on the cool, ocean breeze until Lexa can’t help but smile.

Clarke is so effortlessly stunning. In the already lovely night, her wind-mussed hair and rainbow scrubs fill Lexa with so much joy, the firefighter could nearly scream. Instead, Lexa bites down on her lower lip and drums her empty beer bottle against the outside of her thigh in time with the music that has once again managed to drown out the bar stool base runners.

She’s just gotten used to the idea of going unseen under the awning of the bar-- content to muse and observe and let the night go along its merry way without any interference from a tired, pining firefighter--when Clarke suddenly looks over her shoulder and lands right on her.

Lexa, to her credit, does a commendable job at appearing to go unperturbed. She smiles a lazy, easy smile. Sends off a little wave. Making herself look away after her little part of the exchange is like tearing off a bandaid, but she does it with a strength and courage usually reserved for burning buildings, and feels quite proud of herself for the smoothe, casualness of it all.

It all flies out the window when she feels more than sees Clarke stop. Lexa takes a fake sip of beer because she needs something to do with her hands as she surreptitiously watches Clarke squeeze her companions shoulder, wave goodbye and start across the street. She’s glad now more than ever that Anya had chosen to stay inside the bar, probably hooting and hollering along with the best of them despite not having a baseball bone in her body.

She’s caught somewhere between elated and terrified when Clarke hops the little curb between them and adjusts her purse on her shoulder. She tucks a strand of pretty hair behind her ear, takes a glance at the bar behind Lexa, and smiles, all in a matter of seconds. To Lexa, those seconds could be minutes and still it wouldn’t be nearly enough time to appreciate Clarke for all that she is, standing illuminated under the orange streetlight, flushed in the nippy air.

“Hey, Lexa. How are you?”

Clarke starts in just like that and Lexa is more than unprepared for it. She goes to take another sip of her beer, but remembers it’s empty, forcing herself to smile instead.

“Hey there. I’m good. It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too. I just wanted to thank you again...for the ride home that night.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Of course. How is she?”

“Ellie?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s good. Much better.”

“Healing up okay?”

“Seems to be. She’s back at preschool, and I’m back to work, so. You know. We’re making do.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Lexa smiles and Clarke smiles, but somehow it doesn’t feel the same. Somehow, Lexa feels like maybe she messed up that night in the hospital. Or maybe it was in the car. Somewhere along the way, Clarke had seemed to open up a little bit, but that fissure now seemed to be fully sealed and plastered flat, making it impossible to locate.

Still, it’s a lovely night, the Sox seem to be winning by the sounds of it, and the ocean smells so good Lexa could stand there sniffing at the air like a puppy all night if time would let her. She’d be hard pressed to be brought down in this very moment. Besides, despite the change in disposition, Clarke is still the sweetest, prettiest thing she’s seen in weeks; a highlight of her day, no competition.

“Are you going far?”

“Oh, not too bad. I’m on my way home.”

“Got your car fixed up, okay?”

Clarke snorts. “That thing is a goner. Transmission got wrecked and it’s going to be too expensive to get it fixed right away.”

“I could fix it.” It’s coming out of her mouth before she even realizes it, but once it has, she doesn’t mind so much. It’s true, she could probably fix it, and she’d be happy to.

Clarke gives her this look that she can’t immediately decipher, but it turns into a small smile, and Lexa is a collector again.

“That’s okay. I’m within walking distance to most things.”

“Your neighborhood is a mile away.”

“It’s a nice walk.”

“That’s true...but it’s getting late.”

“You and I both know it’s a safe town.”

“You and I both know that it’s Five For Five Friday...and the tourists are out.” Lexa grins when Clarke chuckles, a breathy little thing that’s mostly a shake of her head.

“I’ll be okay.”

“You sure I can’t at least walk you home?”

The true, genuine contemplation gives her hope...and a little bit of courage.

“Let me at least walk you part way. I’d feel so much better. And you could tell me what’s going on with your car.”

Clarke smiles, narrowing her eyes like Lexa is all kinds of mischief. And tonight, maybe she is. Maybe it’s the sea water, or the Sox game. Maybe it’s the good beer, or the bubbling, brimming bar behind her filled with the town she loves. Maybe it’s just the pretty girl in the tie-dye scrubs. Whatever it is, it has Lexa falling into step with a grin hidden between her teeth as Clarke walks forward and beckons her on with a slight roll of her eyes and a smile.

Lexa collects that one too.

 

 


	5. Just Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting!

“ _Saturdays are for supermarkets, summers included.”_ That’s what Clarke’s nanny used to say as she strapped Clarke into her booster seat, not the least bit bothered by Clarke’s pouting lower lip and impressive glare. At seven, it was incomprehensible to Clarke that the weekends of her precious summer break should possibly be taken up by something as mundane as grocery shopping.

 _“Your mother will be home soon. Don’t we want a nice full fridge for her?”_ Clarke couldn’t have cared less about the fridge. _“Don’t you want fresh, yummy ingredients for your dinner?”_ Dinner could get lost. Saturday afternoons were for jungle safaris in the backyard and hose fights in the driveway, certainly not for fluorescent lined store aisles and endless lists of gross, green vegetables. Seven-year-old Clarke had made it her mission to glower at her nanny as hard as she possibly could every time they embarked on these traitorous trips.

How Clarke ended up with a grocery store-loving angel nineteen years later, she’d never know, but she actively thanks the universe for all she was worth. On days like today, squeezing in a run to the store on her only Saturday morning off in weeks should be a nightmare had she had any normal semblance of a toddler. Instead she has Ellie, the little chatterbox that finds wonder in even the most boring errands.

Clarke tries her best to keep up with the broken sentences bubbling out of her two-year-old, but all she can really focus on is the way the carseat still wobbles in the rental car she still hasn’t quite figured out. Any second now she’s almost expecting to look back there and see that the car seat has completely toppled sideways, taking Ellie with it.

Nevertheless, the seat holds, and Ellie is all smiles and happy waves, pleased to be on the way to the place with the cart rides.

 

The store is packed, and the site of it immediately spurs the beginnings of an ache, right behind Clarke’s eyes. It starts in the parking lot when there are no spots to be found despite the third and forth lap taken, finally settling for the spot as far away as one could possibly get from the entrance on the fifth lap. When Ellie decides she’s done walking for the day right as Clarke is pulling her out of her carseat, she rescinds her thanks to the universe.

If it weren’t for the 95 degree heat, the walk wouldn’t be so bad, but as such, Clarke is panting by the time she settles Ellie into the seat of the grocery cart and sets her purse down next to her.

“Can you hold the list for mommy?”

“Juice?”

“Yeah, we’re getting juice,” Clarke assures, trying to catch her breath as she pushes back sweaty hair from her forehead. She should have worn a hat.

“Puppy?”

“No puppies at this story, baby.”

“Why?”

“This store is for food.” Clarke peers down at the list in those chubby little hands and tries to map out the fastest route. Fruits and veggies first, then cereal and bread. Bagels if they’re having that good sale, then snacks. Snacks would take up most of the time. Clarke looks at her watch and feels her heart rate spike. She’s only got about forty-minutes to get this done before her appointment at the auto shop. Dairy would be last if the register lines weren’t backed up in front of the fridge. If they were, she could do snacks after fruits and veggies, then dairy, and grains last.

“What fruit do you want, Ellie?”

“Fruit?”

“Yeah, what fruit do you want? Apples? Bananas?”

“Yes.”

"Yes to both?"

“Juice?”

“Oh boy,” Clarke sighs, pushing them towards the produce. “I’ll pick them this time, but you’re not allowed to complain tomorrow, deal?” But Ellie is too wrapped up in digging through the contents of Clarke’s purse to notice anything else.

It takes way too long to get out of the produce section thanks to none of the fruit being ripe, and even when she does, she has about five bananas and a bag of apples to get them through the week. “This isn’t going to work,” she grumbles, going through a mental list of what else she could give Ellie for her afternoon healthy snack.

“Hey, Elle?” She gently rubs the pudgy little hand gripping onto the cart handle, bartering for attention. “How’s applesauce sound?”

“Yeah!”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! Good.”

“Great,” Clarke sighs in relief. “We can do applesauce. And peaches. Peaches are on that aisle. We still like peaches, right? Ellie?”  

But her captive audience is already gone, riveted by the tube of lipstick being pulled from the purse that is sure to wind up all over Ellie’s white shirt in no time. Clarke can’t bring herself to summon the energy needed to fight her over it. It’s not a great color anyways, and the shirt can be washed.

“What do we think about green beans,” Clarke asks, grabbing three different flavors of applesauce and four packs of peaches in a cup. “Do you want green beans for snack time, Ellie?”

“Snack time?”

“Yes.”

“Now?!”

“No, later.”

“But now,” Ellie squeals, reaching out for Clarke.

“Let’s finish our shopping first, then we can have snacks. Okay?”

There are a few grumbles and a whine that Clarke is sure she doesn’t want to decipher before Ellie slouches back in her seat and returns to Clarke’s purse for goodies.

“ _Do you want to know the secret to a balanced diet, little Clarke?” Clarke could care less about food secrets and balance. All she wants is to be outside, soaking up the summer sun. “I’ll tell you. It’s color. A little red peppers here, some green spinach, orange carrots, yellow corn, some brown rice. Pink salmon. Doesn’t that sound delicious and healthy?”_

Clarke pushes the cart down the aisle, eyes scanning for the green beans that are nowhere to be found. “We need greens. We’ve got our pinks and yellows. Where are my greens?” Clarke mutters to herself as she searches fruitlessly. “You can’t possibly be out of stock. No one likes green beans.”

“I wike,” Ellie chirps.

“Yeah, I know you do, kiddo. But where are they?”

She grabs a can above her head, inspects it and puts it back. She pushes further down, wanting to scream when still she can’t find the cans she knows were here three weeks ago. She stops halfway down and turns to face the shelves straight on, as if that will somehow miraculously make her mystery beans appear.

Somehow, miraculously, it does...on the top shelf...a foot higher than her best reach.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

She takes a deep breath and reluctantly pushes the cart further away from her. If she falls, she’d be damned if she was going to take her baby with her. A check down the aisle for vigilant employees and a test of the middle shelf to hold onto, Clarke carefully steps up among the cans of corn and black beans.

She presses herself into the shelves and reaches as far as she can, but all she succeeds in doing is knocking a few cans of black-eyed peas onto the floor, and baring her midriff for all the world to see.  It’s utterly embarrassing, even with no one around to see it.

“Um...can I help?”

Okay. One person around to see it.

Clarke nearly falls coming down, but a hand on her back steadies her long enough to get her feet planted firmly back on the tile. That is of course until she sees who its, and then she wishes were anything but planted on the ground. What she would give to have fallen...and hit her head...and woken up far, far away from this nightmare of a scenario.

“Oh my god. This is so embarrassing.”

“Wexa!”

The firefighter, decked out in her navy blue uniform and squacking radio, looks like she’s having way too much fun watching the sight before her. Clarke could practically hate her for it.

“We all need our daily helping of green beans. No need to be embarrassed. Hey little one,” Lexa grins, peeking behind Clarke to give Ellie a little wave.

“Ellie, no,” she snaps when Ellie nearly dives out of the cart towards Lexa, squealing Lexa’s name over and over.  Lexa just eases closer and takes the tiny hands in hers as if that were their thing they’d done a million times.

And Clarke refuses to be charmed by it. Not now, not this time.  “They moved them,” she huffs. “They used to be down here. Now, they’re” she gestures to the top shelf then lets her hand fall with a slap against her thigh. “Chuck hasn’t moved anything for months and now he decides it’s time to Extreme Home Makeover his store and move my green beans to the top shelf that literally no one can reach.” She pauses, taking Lexa in. “Well, no one normal sized.”

“Normal sized?” Lexa echoes back to her with a chuckle. “Should I be offended?”

“Not necessarily.”

“You know, my size comes in quite handy sometimes.”

“I’m sure it does. Lots of kitten in trees to be rescued.”

Lexa grins, and Clarke...well, Clarke does her best not to be charmed. It’s really all she can do. She’s only human.

“Kittens in trees, green beans on high shelves. When duty calls... how many do you need?”

Asking for help has never been Clarke’s strong suit. Particularly when it’s coming from an attractive firefighter who has gotten much too close recently. She latches onto her cart and pulls it towards her, ready to leave as quickly as possible. “Oh, that’s okay. We don’t need them this trip.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind. I’m right here. What do you want? Two, three?”

“Really, it’s fine. They’re a toss up item anyways. Thank you, though.”

“A toss up item?”

“For Ellie. Sometimes they’re great, sometimes not so much. I never know.”

“Picky eater?”

Clarke’s about to answer--about to go into Ellie’s numerous food phases and how often they change--when she stops. It frustrates her, scares her even, how easily and quickly Lexa manages to burrow into their days like an old friend who’s done the work to deserve these little snapshots of their lives. But Lexa hasn’t. She’s kind and helpful and generous, but she’s a stranger. A pretty stranger, but still a stranger.

“Yeah,” is all she ends up with. “It’s not a big deal, we’re all set. Thank you, though.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am. I’ve got to run anyways. I have to get to the mechanic by three.”

“You never did let me look at your car.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s okay, I’ve got it handled.”

“I really don’t mind--”

“I know, Lexa,” Clarke snaps before she can stop herself. She blanches at her outburst and wants nothing more than to disappear with her green beans. No one ever told her that having a baby would destroy her social skills. Her free time, sure, but her ability to talk to a fellow adult human being? Poof. Vanished into thin air with no warning.

“I know you don’t mind,” she says, softer this time, and with a sigh that is equal parts frustration and apology. “You don’t mind looking at my security panel, or working on my car, or getting my green beans or coming to every faulty emergency call or walking me home. You are so sweet, and I appreciate that, but I just...I don’t know you. I-- I know it’s a small town and this is what we do here, for each other, but... ” Nothing coming out of her makes sense, she can hear it and see it on Lexa’s face, but she plows ahead. “I...I’m sorry, I have to run. Thank you, really. I just don’t--”

“You don’t know me.” Lexa raises her hands in surrender, and nods, ever the good sport. “I get it, Clarke. Don’t worry about it. If you ever do need help…”

Clarke nods and tries for a smile. “I’ll call you.”

 

//

 

Clarke stands on her porch, squinting against the harsh lights of the firetruck in her driveway wondering when things were supposed to get easier. Even with the toddler passed out, the dishes washed, and the house miraculously somewhat picked-up, there were still things to attend to. Namely, the fire department in her front yard.

“And you’re sure there was no smoke.”

“There was no smoke because there was no fire,” Clarke huffs, freezing in the night chill and so exhausted she could cry.

“Then why did you press the button?”

“I told you, I didn’t press the button. It’s a faulty wire or something in my security panel. This happens all the time, but usually it’s a different station that shows up. They know the drill. Could you please turn your lights off? My daughter’s window is right above the garage.”

The ginger lumberjack in front of her signals for the lights to be killed, and frowns down at his clipboard. “I’m still going to need to do an inspection.”

 “I am literally begging you,” Clarke pleads, “I just got my daughter down. I’ve had all of five minutes of peace and quiet. If you come in, she’s going to wake up, scream to see the truck, ask me where Lexa is and then we’re going to have problems.”

“Lexa Woods?”

“The very one.”

“She knows about this?”

“She does. She and all the other poor souls who have been dragged out to my house at all hours of the day.”

The man--Teddy, she thinks--peers down at her skeptically and Clarke finds herself holding her breath as if she were sitting in front of the principal back in grade school. “Please,” she mutters for good measure. “I promise, everything’s okay.”

“I have protocols.”

“I know you do. I know. But if you could just...look the other way. Just this once. I have to be up in six hours for my shift at the hospital and I really just want to go to bed. You can understand that, right? Working the night shift and everything.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“A nurse.”

“My wife’s a nurse,” the man glows and Clarke just barely manages to plaster on a smile. He hums in consideration, then nods. “If you don’t mind, I’m just going to give Captain Woods a quick call. If she says we’re good to go, we’ll go. Is that okay?”

Without feeling like she has much of a choice, Clarke runs her hands over her face, and sighs. On the one hand, she’d snapped at Lexa just days ago for being too involved. On the other...she’d really, _really_ like to go to bed. “Yeah, okay. That’s fine.”

She nearly falls asleep against the door frame in the time it takes Thomas, or Teddy, or whatever his name is, to call. Despite the cold and the group of very large men milling about, and the loud grumble and hissing of the truck, the frame is as good a surface as any to call it quits on the day and just surrender to the exhaustion tugging at her desperately.

“Mrs. Griffin?”

She jumps at the sound of his voice and hates how he grimaces in sympathy. She doesn’t need sympathy, she needs sleep. Beautiful, quiet, siren-less sleep.

“All good?”

“Unfortunately, no, I’m sorry--”

“What did she say?” Clarke asks, coming off the door frame ready to fight. “She knows it’s just the panel, there’s nothing to worry about--”

“We couldn’t reach her,” Teddy frowns. “She’s probably on a job.”

“You have to be freaking--” she stops herself and groans against her door. “Is there anything else we can do? I mean, I can sign a statement or swear on record that we’re all fine, whatever you need…”

“It may just be faster to let us do the inspection, ma’am,” Teddy lets her down gently.  “We can be real quick. Quiet too. We’ll send Lewis in. He’s about a month away from a promotion. Good kid, light on his feet.”

She is ready to fall to her knees and resort to tears when Teddy’s phone rings and he signals for her to wait there while he retreats to the driveway. _Where am I going to go?_ She wants to snap, but instead wraps her arms around her stomach and waits.

“You’re in luck,” Teddy says, lumbering back up the stairs. “Got her on the phone. She wants to speak with you.”

“Oh.” Clarke clears her throat and straightens herself out, unwrapping her arms and taking the phone from the man. “Okay,” she breathes. Licking her lips, she presses the phone to her ear and turns away from the men who are all staring at her as if they can’t quite figure out why a station captain would be taking the time to talk to this nobody in the middle of the night. Clarke wonders that herself.

“Hello?”

_“You know, this isn’t what I had in mind when I told you to call if you needed any help.”_

Despite everything, Clarke finds herself smiling at the grin she can hear in Lexa’s voice. “Me neither,” she admits, soft and tired. She won’t admit to herself that it’s nice to hear the familiar voice after dealing with all these strange, new faces. She won’t admit it, but it’s the truth.  “I’m sorry to bother you.”

_“It’s no bother. Everything alright?”_

“My panel went off again. They’re saying they need to come through to check everything out, but I really can’t have my night imploding. I have to be up in six hours and I _just_ got Ellie down for the night. They seem to not believe me when I say that it’s just the panel and it does this all the time.”

 _“Well, to their credit, it_ is _rather unordinary.”_

“I suppose.”

_“Don’t worry about it, I’ll talk to them. You get some sleep, Clarke. Hey--put the hose on the second floor. Up there. No, do you see that window? Put it there--”_

“Lexa... are you on a job?”

_“What? Clarke? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you well. I’ll take care of the buffoons at your house, alright?”_

“I--”

“ _Shit, I said_ that _window. Back up...back the hell up, Darvis. Do you want to pass or not?”_

“Lexa?”

“ _Get some rest, Clarke. And call the number on that security panel when you get the chance.”_

Clarke wants to say more. For starters, she wants to thank her for her help with this. Maybe follow up with an apology for the way she’d acted at the store...or all the other times she’d made a fool of herself. But the line is dead before she can even decide now is not the time or place. Teddy takes his phone back.

“I’m sorry for the hassle, Mrs. Griffin.”

“It’s Miss,” Clarke mutters, still distracted by the phone call.

“Apologies. You have a good night now. Your panel will send a report to the security company, but you may want to follow up with a phone call.”

Clarke just nods because it’s easier than explaining that she knows this already, that she has called, that they don’t know what’s wrong, and that she can’t afford to spend hundreds of dollars on replacement and installation fees for something she never uses.  

When she stops by Ellie’s room after the firemen have disappeared down the road, she finds her toddler fast asleep in her bed, wrapped around Lexa’s toy fire truck. As she quietly closes the door, she could swear it’s guilt that settles low in her stomach.

 

* * *

 

 Anya has never really been one for subtlety. The door to the fire station cracks against the wall as it bangs open in announcement of Anya’s arrival. To be fair, her arms are full of boxes.

“Lex?”

“Kitchen!”

Anya drops the boxes to the floor with an unceremonious thud and shoves them out of her path, not caring about the dirty boot print it leaves on the lid. “I brought your shit from storage.”

“You can just set them in here.”

“Yeah, that’s a negative. They’re in the hallway when you want them.” She appears around the corner and finds Lexa glaring at the stove, finger in her mouth. “Burn yourself?”

“I can’t keep the oil from popping.”

“You have the heat on too high, doofus. Here.” Anya leans over her and brings the heat down to a simmer. “Do you know how hard I would laugh if you started an oil fire in your own fire station? What are you making?”

“Eggs.”

“What are you, four?”

“What, it’s breakfast?”

“Yeah, for a four year old. Not someone who spends ten hours a day fighting fires.”

“It’s all I have.”

“Didn’t you go to the store the other day?”

Lexa decidedly does not make eye contact when she shrugs. “Got distracted. And then I got a call and never had time to go back.”

“You’re like a baby. Or a frat boy.”

“Same thing.”

“Too true."

“So how many boxes were there?” Lexa asks, giving her eggs an experimental shove with the spatula.

“Three.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean that’s it? Do you have any idea how heavy they were? Pretty sure you still have your medicine balls and weights in there. I thought physical therapy was about stretchy bands and foam rollers.” Anya hops up onto the counter. “I don’t know why you still have that stuff anyways.”

“Well, I won’t for long.”

“You think your drive will help with donations this year?”

“I think doing it on Memorial Day is going to be the key. People are always happy to donate, but getting around to it is the hard part. Setting up the drive at the parade is going to help draw people in, I think. They’ll be in the spirit to give to this cause.”

“Well...you know I’m proud of you, right?” Anya mumbles it more than actually says it as she bites into a banana. “It’s a good thing you’re doing. People...you know. They admire you for it.”

Lexa shoots her a grin over her shoulder. “How hard was that for you just now?”

Anya rolls her eyes and hops off the counter, heading for the fridge, appetite never satisfied. “Excruciating. Don’t get used to it, brat.”

“Noted.”

“So who’s Clarke?”

A crash and a splash is all it takes. Lexa lurches back with a yelp, yanking her arm away from the pops of oil ricocheting off the whole egg she’d dropped into the pan.  “Fuck me!”

“No thanks.”

Lexa glares. “What’d you ask?”

“I asked you who Clarke was. You then proceeded to make a fool of yourself and burn your arm in the process.”

“Thanks for the narration, Morgan Freeman.”

“You’re welcome. So who is he?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because. I heard you took a call from him in the middle of a training exercise with live flames. Any idea how fast that could get your fired?”

“Oh please. The flames were tiny and completely controlled. There was no real danger.”

“As your chief of safety--”

“We don’t have a chief of safety."

“I’m a fire marshal. It’s the same thing.”

“It’s not, but okay,” Lexa says, running cold water over her arm.

“He must be pretty cool.”

“He is a she and--”

“Oh, well that makes sense.”

“What does?” Lexa snaps, shutting off the water and shoving the frying pan off of the burner.

“A she--probably a cute she--calls you in the middle of the night, and you pick up without hesitating. I mean, what’s a little building fire when your love life is the real inferno, am I right?”

“Oh fuck off,” Lexa laughs, throwing a towel at her sister’s head. “That’s not what that was.”

“You sure?”

“Teddy from 113 called. There’s been an ongoing situation at her house that I’ve been dealing with, so he called for clarification.”

“Could that ongoing situation possibly involve you putting out the fire in her pants?”

“God you’re hilarious” Lexa snaps. She dumps the undercooked eggs into the trash can and tosses the pan in the sink, flinching when it hisses and sputters against the cool water. Some mornings just aren’t made to cooperate and Lexa has long since stopped fighting them.

“Okay, sour puss, I’ll bite. Why the long face?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.”

“Like what? She’s not interested, end of story.”

At the defeated set of Lexa’s shoulders, Anya sits up at attention and studies her little sister, intrigued by this rare show of interest in another human being not covered in ash and needing to be rescued. “But you are?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sounds like you do.”

“I mean, I hardly know her.”

“But you like what you do know?”

Lexa shrugs. “I think I could. I mean, I do. But I think it could be more. But she’s not--she’s got a kid, and she’s so busy. God, she works so hard. You should see her go. She’s like a machine--”

“She’s got a kid?”

“Yeah. A little girl.”

“Jesus, Lex. That’s…”

“I know. I know.”

“You can’t just want Clarke, you have to want the whole thing. A kid is a big deal.”

“I know that.”

“And you think you’re ready to have a kid in your life?”

Lexa picks at her cuticles relentlessly, and if not for the sudden seriousness of the conversation, Anya would tease her mercilessly for the angsty pre-teen habit her little sister never grew out of. At the small frown creeping onto Lexa’s face, Anya decides to keep quiet.

“I think I could be,” Lexa mutters, “but like I said, it doesn’t matter what I think. She’s not interested.”

“Maybe she’ll come around.”

“Maybe.”

“But if she does, Lex, you have to know whether you’re ready for that kind of commitment. For her sake, you have to be sure.”

Lexa nods, going silent as she picks at her cuticles and leans against the stove. “What do you think? You think I could be ready for something like that? If she ever came around?”

“I don’t know,” Anya answers honestly. “I know you’ve got a huge heart. Biggest I’ve ever seen. I know they’d be lucky to have some of that sweet Lexa love aimed at them. But kids are a lot of work. Trust me, I’d know,” she says with a wink and it’s been long enough that neither of them feel the resentment that used to bubble up at the thought of the strange relationship they’d been involuntarily thrust into when their parents died.  

“I think I’d at least like to be her friend.”

“That’s probably a good place to start.”

“The trick is getting her to let me.”

Anya pinches her cheek and gives it a shake. “How could she not? Look at this cute face.”

“I will break your wrist,” Lexa growls, fighting off a grin.

 

* * *

 

It is by the benevolent grace of god that Anya is not still around when the station’s next call comes in.

 

* * *

 

“We have to stop meeting like this.”

Despite Lexa’s best efforts at charming, it is immediately apparent that Clarke is far from amused. Perhaps she had thought when she’d told Lexa, for all intents and purposes, to mind her own business, that she would take that to mean in every facet of every possible interaction they could have. Perhaps she’d thought Lexa wouldn’t show up this time. Perhaps she’d hoped she wouldn’t. Unfortunately for Clarke, Lexa is bound by duty, and perhaps more importantly, the law, and Clarke would just have to get over that.

“I swear, this has got to be some kind of sick joke,” Clarke sighs.

It takes all of one sentence for Lexa to pause and recalibrate. The look on Clarke’s face, the tone in her voice, the sag of her hip and the cross of her arms--it’s not anger, it’s exhaustion.

Lexa softens immediately. “Can I do anything to help?”

“Aside from rip that stupid thing out of my wall?”

“I could do that, actually. I mean, it’d be slightly more delicate than ripping, but I could deinstall it for you. If that’s what you want?” Without really meaning to, Lexa finds herself staring at all the little movements around Clarke’s face--the small quirk of her lips in something Lexa thinks might be a smile, the dance of her hair in the gentle morning breeze, the way the flint of the windchimes on the porch sparkles in her eyes. She can’t help it when it all makes her smile.

“As tempting as that is, and believe me I have considered it greatly, I’d never forgive myself if there were a real emergency that went unanswered because I took my thing down. I just--I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

Lexa hates it when Clarke throws up her hands and looks so completely lost in frustration. She wants so desperately to help.

“I could look--” but she stops herself when she remembers Clarke’s words at the store. She’s encouraged by the bags under Clarke’s eyes, decides to press on.. “I know you said that we don’t know each other, and we don’t, I get that. I totally get that. I’d never want to overstep, I completely respect where you’re coming from, and--

“Oh, Lexa. Gosh, I’m--please don’t remind me what I said,” Clarke interrupts, waving the stuttering firefighter off. “I’m kind of embarrassed.” Clarke smiles down at her shoes and presses her palm to her forehead. Something so simple should not be so endearing, yet Lexa finds herself completely infatuated. “I...I’ve been meaning to apologize for all that.”

“Oh.” Lexa scrambles to come up with more, but she’s so caught off guard, she has absolutely nothing to follow up with.

“I was going to do it when we were on the phone the other night, but then you shouted something about a window, and I realized you were on the job, and it just wasn’t the right time.”

It takes a second for her brain to catch up, but when it does, Lexa grins. “It was just a training exercise.”

“Really? Okay, that makes me feel a little better.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Clarke. You’re right, we don’t know each other, and I’ve been a little over zealous. It’s been a little while since we’ve had someone new in town. And I really admire you and how much you put into your daughter. You’re very strong. And brave.”

Clarke chuckles and it might be even better than her smile. Maybe. “Not as brave as fighting fires.”

“Fire fighters have nothing on single mothers. We just close our eyes and hope for the best.”

“That is _not_ what you do,” Clarke laughs, leaning back against her door frame, finally starting to relax. Lexa loves her like this, silly and playful and unburdened. If she could give Clarke even just a minute of that, she’d walk away happy and let that be enough.

“I’m serious. It’s a lot of crossed fingers and good luck.”

“Well then that makes you even more brave. To run into something so dangerous on just the hope that it all goes okay.”

“Isn’t that what you do?”

“I wouldn’t call my toddler dangerous. Mischievous, maybe. Exhausting. But not life-threatening. At least not usually,” she says with a wink.

“That’s fair. But I’m just dealing with flames and buildings. You’re dealing with a real, live, tiny human being with feelings and dreams and desires and thoughts. That’s crazy.”

“Don’t remind me,” Clarke groans. “She already has so many ideas about the world. It’s terrifying.”

“She’s very smart.”

“She is,” Clarke says, her voice turning the shade of soft and sweet and dripping with pride that’s  reserved for her little girl. Lexa is enthralled by it.

“Where is that little one?” Lexa asks, looking around.

It’s amazing how fast Clarke closes back up. It’d be just as enthralling as all her other traits, if it didn’t sting so damn much.

“I’m sorry,” she add quickly, “that’s none of my business.”

“No, no,” Clarke sighs. “It’s okay. I’m just--I’m not use to...this.”

“To what? Conversation?” Lexa asks genuinely, wanting to figure her out.

“Honestly, yeah,” Clarke says with a breathy chuckle. “Is that lame? That’s lame, god I’m so lame.”

“You’re not lame.”

“I am. I know I am. It’s okay. That’s what happens when you have a kid a decade before you planned to. Things just kind of...go out the window. Including your social life.”

“I understand.”  

“Not that I’m not happy to have her. God, now I sound awful. I didn’t plan for her so soon, but I _do_ love her, and I am _so_  happy to have her. She changed my life for the better. Please don’t get me wrong.”

“I know, Clarke.” Lexa smiles because she can’t help herself with Clare so worried and frazzled and beautiful.

“I don’t really know what I’m saying.” Clarke takes a deep breath that Lexa can practically feel in her own chest. “I guess my point is... I don’t speak to normal sized human beings very often. I have a toddler, I work in peds...everything revolves around nap time and juice and snack and cartoons and tiny, tiny bodies. I don’t really know how to be anything other than that person. I take care of tiny humans. That’s just who I am. I don’t know how to be anything else. Does that make sense? I don’t know how to explain it better. I just--”

“It’s okay, Clarke. I get it.” Clarke’s not ready to be anything other than a mother. She may never be. And Lexa gets it. She gets it and she gets it and she gets it over and over, loud and clear, but god does it suck. But she does get it, and she respects her endlessly for it. “Your commitment to your daughter and your job are commendable.”

“Thanks. I think?”

“Yeah, sorry. That was a really pretentious way of saying that,” Lexa chuckles, shaking her head. Clarke has her so entirely out of sorts. “I mean it, though. I do admire you.”

“Well, I admire you too,” Clarke says softly, and Lexa can for sure call it shy. It does nothing to help her out. “And I am endlessly grateful for all of your help and patience with us. And--” she pauses and looks up at Lexa with those ridiculous eyes, “--if you just...use a little bit more of that patience with me...maybe you and I could work towards being friends? If you’re interested?”

Lexa beams. She could do friends. She could definitely do friends. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.” She’s unsure whether the small laugh that comes out of Clarke is at the ridiculous grin on her face or because she’s equally as happy. It turns out, it doesn’t really matter.

 

* * *

 

“I’m an idiot,” Clarke groans, shoving her face into her couch.

“Now, now. Only _I’m_ allowed to call you that.” Raven plops down on the back of her legs, unconcerned by the weak protests Clarke lets out.

“I can’t be her friend. What was I thinking? I’ve seen the way she looks at me. I know what she wants.”

“What _you_ want.”

“No! No. That’s not. No.”

“Clarke. Your child is getting into something in the kitchen.”

“What?” Clarke’s head snaps up and she peers over the arm of the couch. “Elliana, come here, please.”

“Mommy!”

“Come here, come tell me what you need.”

A very naked toddler comes waddling into the living room, tiny bare feet slapping on the hardwood that makes both adults cringe. The little one is completely oblivious. She hikes a leg up onto the couch attempting to climb up, but has no success until Raven hooks her under the arm and tugs her into her lap.

“What’s going on, kid? Talk to me, give it to me straight.”

Ellie just cocks her head at Raven while Clarke laughs. “She has no idea what you’re saying.”

“I know, but that’s half the fun.”

“What do you need, baby girl?” Clarke bucks Raven off of her and sits up. She takes her baby from Raven’s lap and situates her in her own, pressing her nose into the soft, blonde hair and planting a kiss to the warm head.

“Hungy.”

“Hungry? But you just ate.”

Ellie shrugs and nuzzles into Clarke’s chest, eyelids heavy. Momentarily forgetting about Raven, Clarke kisses her baby’s cheek and runs her hand through her hair, so in love with this tiny creature she made.  “I think maybe you’re sleepy, not hungry, yeah?”

Ellie nods, slow and heavy as she curls further into a ball. “Here,” Clarke tugs a blanket off the back of the couch and wraps Ellie up in it, rocking her ever so gently. “Rae, can you go get me the paci that’s in the dishwasher? It’s clean.”

When Raven gets back, Ellie is already a few blinks away from sleep. She slips the pacifier into Ellie’s mouth, and runs her hand over her head. Clarke watches them with a smile, ignoring the quick thought that flashes through her mind about needing to start limiting the pacifier’s use. For now, in this quiet, sleepy little moment, a pacifier never hurt anybody.  “Take a little nap, bug,” she whispers. “I love you, sweet girl.” Ellie is asleep in a matter of minutes.

 

“So tell me again why you can’t be friends with the hottest fire fighter in all of New England?” Raven says, plopping back down to the couch.

“Precisely because she’s the hottest fire fighter in all of New England.”

“So you admit that she’s hot.”

“Of course she’s hot,” Clarke snaps. “I’m not blind.”

“Could have fooled me. Your car is still broken.”

“What does that have to do with my car?”

“A sexy firefighter offers to fix your car for free after you’ve been worrying about how to afford the deductible for a month and refusing to let Abby help...and you say? What was it again? Was it maybe a resounding no? ”

“It was late.”

“How much would I make if I bet you she’s offered since then? Hmm?”

“Rae...”

“Look, you know I love you.”

“Raven.”

“You know that I am always on your side.”

“Usually.”

“When you’re right.”

“Which is often.”

Raven shakes her head, apologetic but honest. “Not this time, babe.”

“You really expect me to go galavanting off with some woman I don’t know just because she’s nice to look at? Look at what’s in my lap, Raven. I have a child.”

“Oh, I know. I was there when you pushed her outta your cooch and nearly broke my hand.”

“Real nice.”

Raven shrugs and leans her head on Clarke’s shoulder. “I speak the truth. Always. And right now, my truth is saying it’s about high time you let someone in again. What are you afraid of?”

“Other than getting man-handled and smacked around?” Clarke retorts without thinking. The outburst feels hot and sour in the back of her throat and her heart races a little bit, but maybe this is what she needed--to finally say it out loud, to get it out in the open once and for all. Maybe it’s a bit of relief.

It’s not worth it when she sees the look of absolute guilt and horror on Raven’s face.

“Clarke, I’m, fuck, I’m s--”

“No, Rae, that’s on me,” Clarke interrupts putting her hand over Raven’s.  “I’m sorry. That was a low blow. It just came out, it wasn’t fair.”

Raven is quiet for a moment, chewing on her thoughts, maybe revisiting a bit of the past that neither of them like to do very often. Clarke sits patiently and waits for Raven to work through it. It’d been nearly three years since Jack had entered Clarke’s life, and Raven’s by association, and wreaked havoc. Those wounds haven’t quite finished healing, literal or physical. Clarke looks down at the scar on Raven’s wrist and feels her good friend guilt creep up into the back of her throat.

“Is that what you’re afraid of?” Raven’s voice is hoarse when she finally speaks, and Clarke feels guilty, guilty, guilty for all of it. Guilty and exposed. Raven has always known how to read her.

“I don’t know,” she says, quietly. “Maybe. I’m scared of a lot of things, Rae. But I’m also happy with the way things are right now. Things finally feel good. I moved back home, you got a job you love and Ellie gets her godmother right down the street. Things are good. I don’t want to tempt that with some unknown variable tipping the scale in the wrong direction.”

Raven nods, her head falling back to Clarke’s shoulder. “I get that.” They sit in silence, their Netflix show long having timed out on them. “But for the record, I don’t think you’d have anything to worry about with her. She seems like good people. Like, freakishly good people. Maybe too good...shit you’re right. She’s probably a witch in disguise or something.”

Clarke chuckles and squeezes Raven’s thigh. She sighs and looks down at Ellie, fast asleep in her arms. She is both the most beautiful and the most terrifying in sleep; so soft and precious and warm, and so very vulnerable.

“You know, when Jack decided to stay after I told him about Ellie, I thought he was a good guy,” she says, softly. “He seemed like he wanted to do what was right and was genuinely interested in us.”

“I thought so too.”

Clarke nods. “That first time he--it came so out of the blue. I’d never seen anyone so drunk or angry in my life. I was so completely shocked. I could have never seen it coming, and I think maybe that was the worst part.” She swallows hard and hugs Ellie tighter to her chest as if she could shield her forever from knowing where she came from. “Trusting Lexa to be a good person, isn’t the problem,” She sighs. “I thought he was a good guy...I could have _sworn_ that he was the real deal. How do I walk away from that trusting my judgement ever again? He didn’t make me stop trusting other people, he made me stop trusting myself.”

Raven clears her throat, sits up and releases a shuttering sigh. She lets Clarke run a hand through her hair, accepting the quiet comfort for a moment before shaking herself off and grabbing her beer off the coffee table. Clarke watches her do all of this with slight awe. Her ability to compartmentalize has always astounded Clarke.

“Maybe it’s not about trusting yourself,” Raven says after a particularly long drink.

“What is it about then?”

Raven shrugs a shoulder. “A leap of faith? Or some corny shit like that.”

“Language.”

“She’s asleep!”

“It’s subliminal,” Clarke laughs, shaking her head.

“Yeah, yeah. She’ll be smarter for it.”

“I don’t know about smarter. Smart ass, maybe.”

“Language,” Raven retorts and just barely dodges the pacifier that’d fallen out of Ellie’s mouth.

Clarke tries and fails to chew back a smile. It’s amazing sometimes, to think back to just three years in the past and compare it to what she has now--a beautiful house in her hometown near old friends and family, a daughter she loves more than life itself, a best friend she’d do anything for and vice-versa, and her life back again. For all intents and purposes, she had everything she needed. More sleep wouldn’t hurt, but maybe that’d come in a few years. Life is good. At the very least, life is better. She never considered that there might be something more for her. Not so soon. Then again, it _has_ been three years.

“I’m on your side, always.” Raven says, looking at her seriously. “Whatever you decide. But maybe taking a chance on the hottest firefighter in all of New England, who comes to your house twice a week because of a faulty panel, and walks you home at night, and lets your screaming toddler play in her truck to feel better, and offers to fix your car for free...maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

Well, laid out like that…

Raven is not wrong. Raven is very often not wrong. Clarke loves it and she hates it. “A leap of faith, you say?”

“Maybe.”

“You think she’s worth it?”

“Maybe. What do you think?”

Clarke bites her lip. She stares down at her sleeping baby, all plump lips and rosy cheeks. Oh, what the hell. She sighs, “Yeah. She may just be.”

Raven fist pumps and Clarke laughs, shaking her head. “As a friend!” She quickly adds.

“Oh come on!”

“Raven! I don’t _know_ her!”

“But she’s so hot!”

“Why don’t you date her then?”

“Can I?”

Clarke stops laughing. “Absolutely not.”  

Raven grins at her and surrenders her hands. “Only joking. But you know, the way you get to know someone is to date them.”

“Raven.”

“Fine, fine. God. I’ll accept friends. Under one condition.”

“And what’s that?”

“Let her fix your damn car. You can’t keep taking the bus, and you deserve to see some of those muscles in a greasy tank top.”

“Oh my god.” Clarke rolls her eyes. “I am not going to let her fix my car.”  

“You will and you’re going to like it.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Raven.”  

“Clarke. Let the girl fix your car.”

“I absolutely will not be letting her fix my car.”

 

* * *

 

It’s cute, Lexa thinks. It’s more than cute, it’s...discerning...the way the pair of blonde heads watch her every movement as she surveys the car in the driveway with what little light is left in the quickly setting sun.

With Ellie on Clarke’s hip it’s almost laughable how they watch her in the same way, with the same facial expressions and the same head-tilts as she digs under the hood and tries to focus on the task at hand.

It proves to be exceptionally difficult.

“Do you think you could grab me a flashlight if you have one?” She asks, knowing good and well she has a flashlight in the pocket near her knee. She just needs a moment to get a good look at the car without those matching pair of steel, blue eyes searing into her back.

Lexa only smiles when she hears Clarke get halfway down the driveway, stop at the sound of tiny protests, and apologetically return to leave the toddler by Lexa’s side while she retreats back into the house.

Ellie is unusually quiet. She stands there in her adorable pajamas with her blankie in one hand, thumb in her mouth, watching Lexa’s movements like a sleepy hawk. The company is surprisingly lovely. Somehow, the soft, sleepy energy of the toddler does more for Lexa’s revved up nerves from a day of emergencies than any bottle of beer or meditation app on her phone.

It’s nice to have the presence of something so innocent and receptive after the violence of her daily activities. It’s nice to feel needed in such a simple, dometic way for once. No one’s asking her to run into a burning building to save the one person they can’t live without. No one’s asking her to go in, just one more time, they know it’s hot, but just one more time. No one’s reaching out to her, asking her to save their life at the possible expense of her own.

Not that she’s not happy to do it. Not that she wouldn’t do it a million times over. She would and she will, but this--this is a nice chance of pace.

Being the hero that carries babies out of fires has little rivalry in the scheme of amazing things. It’s bolstering and enlivening and thrilling, and Lexa has never really considered anything else for herself since she’d started. But to be here, in the dying light of a long summer day, sticky with the wonderful kind of sweat that only comes when the sky turns that aegean blue and the cicadas start their song --that’s intoxicating. To be needed by a baby who doesn’t need carrying out of fire, just wants the simple comfort of Lexa’s presence as the night slips onto center stage...it feels like something terrifyingly special.

With a fullness she’s not quite sure what to do with, Lexa turns to her tiny companion and holds out a small wrench.

“Could you hold this for me?”

The shuffle Ellie does, the way she looks up at Lexa under fatigue-heavy eyelids and holds out her pudgy, drool-covered hand to take the wrench makes the night feel fragile and wonderfully delicate, as if one wrong move might cause it to disintegrate into non-existence, but a combination of the right moves, and Lexa is rewarded with the trust and affection of the two people she hasn’t been able to keep off her mind for the last month. That beats firefighter heroics any day.

“Sorry, it was buried in our junk drawer.” Clarke comes back slightly winded and hands Lexa the flashlight. Lexa takes it with a smile and tries her best not to stare. It helps that she has a task at hand--one that’s challenging and familiar and reminds her of her first year in this sleepy, little town. It’s nice to get back to her roots, she thinks.

“It’s the carburetor, right? It’s probably the carburetor,” Clarke offers. It makes Lexa chuckle.

“Your car doesn’t have a carburetor.”

“Well, there you go, that’s the problem. I’m missing a carburetor.”

Lexa laughs, tired and content, and peels herself out from underneath the hood. “You mentioned you had an appointment with a mechanic a little while back?”

“Yeah.” Clarke scoops Ellie into her arms and bounces her gently. “He wasn’t helpful. He quoted me about ten different things having to do with my transmission all for about $7,000. My deductible is $2,500, so that’s didn’t help me any.”

“He was trying to cheat you. Here, take a look.” Lexa guides Clarke to the hood of the car and shines her flashlight down into it. “Your transmission is fine. You don’t have any leaking fuel and your belt looks great. It seems like the bulk of your damage is cosmetic, which is a bummer, but definitely drivable.”  

Clarke watches her intently, nodding and leaning in close to see everything Lexa’s pointing out. It helps to have her hands and eyes busy,  but Lexa is only human, and she can’t help but notice how fresh and clean and floral Clarke smells having just gotten out of the shower when Lexa arrived.

“So why isn’t it starting?”

“Did that mechanic have a look at your inertia switch?”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“Here.” Lexa walks around and opens the front door, crouching down to squat on her heels. There’s a squeaky, sleepy little whine behind her and before she knows it, Clarke is trying and failing to keep an exhausted toddler from scrambling out of her arms and into Lexa’s lap.

“I’m so sorry--”

“Oh, she’s okay,” Lexa says with a chuckle, scooting Ellie closer to to her body to keep her secure. She undoes a couple screws holding a side panel in place beneath the passenger dash and pushes aside a bundle of wires. “This is your inertia switch,” she says, pointing to a little black box. “When it gets tripped, it cuts off the fuel to your engine in the event of an accident to keep your car from lighting on fire. Without any fuel getting to your engine, your car won’t start and will seem totalled. You see this red button here?”

There a moment of quiet that makes her look back. It’s a terrible idea because what she finds makes everything flutter and zing, and it so does not help. Clarke is looking at her with those crazy, blue eyes. Her cheeks are flushed from the warm night and her hair is damp and dripping down her neck. She is the most beautiful thing Lexa has ever seen, and it hurts in the best and worst ways. She clears her throat and leans back slightly so that Clarke has a better look at the switch. “This button will reset your switch. May I?”

“Oh, please do,” Clarke says, backing out of Lexa space enough so that the firefighter and temporary mechanic can breathe again. Lexa presses it once, then tries the keys in ignition. The engine rumbles to life and Lexa grins, satisfied at her work and remembering how good it used to feel when she solved problems in the garage. It makes her think about her broken down Bolt in storage and maybe giving its repair another go.

“Oh my god! It works!”

“Just a little insider secret,” Lexa chuckles and kills the ignition. She screws the panel back on and closes the door, giving the toddler that’s still content on her hip a little bounce that makes the little thing giggle.

“I don’t know how to possibly thank you. You’ve saved me a lot of time and money.”

“No thanks needed.” Lexa hands Clarke her flashlight back, then her baby. “It was my pleasure. I haven’t had a chance to get my hands dirty on a car in a while.”

“How do you know all that? Being a firefighter can’t possibly lend itself to a lot of free time for hobbies like car repair.”

Lexa laughs and scratches at the back of her neck, feeling the sweat and soot and now grease layered there. “That’s a long story for another time, perhaps.”

“I suppose it is getting late,” Clarke says and adorably looks at the moon as if it will spring to life and tell her the time.

“But maybe I can tell you over drinks sometime? Sal’s maybe.” She raises her free hand, “We can work on that friend thing.”  

Lexa watches Clarke hesitate, and prepares herself for the inevitable rejection. She finds herself a little dazed when Clarke eventually smiles and nods.

“Sure. That sounds nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll text you?”

Lexa can’t help herself. She grins like an idiot. “Great.”

“Thank you again. You’re a life-saver.”

“Oh, I’m happy to help. You guys have a good night.”

“We will, thank you. Ellie, can you say bye to Lexa?” Ellie doesn’t pick her head up from Clarke’s shoulder, but she extends her hand in a sweet, little wave and smiles behind her paci.

“Good night, Ellie. Sweet dreams,” Lexa bids and backtracks down the driveway. “And good night to you, mom,” she grins, sending a little wave. She marvels at the way Clarke chuckles and waves back. She can feel Clarke watching her all the way down the driveway, and if there’s a slight swagger to her step? Well, who could blame her.

 


	6. Memorial Day: Part One

 

2013 | New York City

 

There is something both awful and wonderful about being awake in a city that is largely still asleep. The stillness holds immeasurable peace...and a lurking potential for doom. At four in the morning, the world is a blank canvas, ready and waiting to be shaped into a good day or a bad. There is no in between for the medical students shuffling about in their dark, quiet apartments, wondering what disasters, or perhaps miracles, lie in wait.

 

The unforgiving October chill is so persistent outside the old windows of Clarke’s apartment she feels it even with her four space heaters turned to full blast. There’s not time for a nice, relaxing routine at this hour, not after wringing last minute of sleep out of the alarm clock, but Clarke enjoys a second in front of the window anyways. It’s Tuesday, and as such, she sips her coffee and watches the garbage men pull up in their trucks, as the baker opens his shop, and the old woman who lives above the deli walks her Bichon down the road.

 

Her phone buzzes in her pocket with a phone call, and she takes it out with a frown. No one should be calling her this early in the morning. When she sees who it is though, she smiles as she answers the grainy video call.

 

“Daddy,” she greets, barely containing her grin.

 

_“There’s my little Pumpkin.”_

 

Her father’s face has grown tan and leathery from his time in the desert, and his usual facial fuzz is nearly a full beard, but his eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles the way they always have, and his voice is as familiar as Clarke’s own heartbeat.

 

“How are you? Is everything okay?”

 

 _“Yeah, yeah,”_ Jake says with a chuckle at his daughter’s poorly concealed worry. _“I just wanted to call for your first day of your new rotation. The VA, huh? You ready for that, kiddo?”_

 

“I’d like to think so.” Clarke sips from her coffee and leans against the window ledge.

 

 _“Hey, nice cup.”_  
  
Clarke grins wriley and pulls it closer to her. “It’s mine, paws off.”

 

_“I hope it’s still keeping you warm after all these years.”_

 

“It hasn’t let me down since high school.”

 

 _“Good. You’re going to need it. I hear there’s a storm front moving in. Gonna be a harsh winter.”_  
  
“It’s New York,” Clarke laughs, “when is it ever not a harsh winter.”

 

Jake’s chuckles fades to a lingering smile as he looks on silently, a sparkle to his eyes.

 

“What?” Clarke says with an embarrassed grin at the adoration in his eyes.

 

 _“I’m so proud of you, C,”_ Jake murmurs, fondly. _“I can’t wait to see you for Christmas.”_

 

“You sure you can’t come home any sooner?”

 

_“You know I’ll try my best.”_

 

“You just stay safe.”

 

Jake throws her a wink before looking over his shoulder. Clarke’s heart sinks when he turns back to her with an apologetic frown.

 

“You have to go?” She guesses, frowning with him.

 

_“Sorry, baby girl. I’ll call you again when I can. You’re going to do so great today, I’m so proud of you.”_

 

“I’m proud of you too, Daddy,” Clarke says, blinking away the sting in her eyes.

 

_“I love you so much, Clarke. Be good. Stay out of trouble.”_

 

“Never,” she laughs. She blows him a kiss and waves goodbye. “I love you, Dad. Be safe.”  
  


 

 

Fred, the only taxi driver ever awake in her neighborhood at four in the morning, greets her with a toothy smile and a coffee that she takes eagerly despite the one she’d finished moments earlier.

 

“Same as always, little lady?”

 

“Actually, not today, Freddie.” She shrugs out of her winter coat in the heat of the cab and loops her stethoscope around her neck.  She digs into the back pocket of her jeans and pulls out a scrap of paper with an address on it. “I start a new rotation today.”

 

“What’ll it be this time?”

 

“Ortho at the VA.”

 

“Mm. God’s work you’re doing, you know?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” She hands him the address and sits back into the shell of her coat, getting cozy while she can. “My dad’s excited about it.”

 

“You tell him I say hello?”

 

“Of course. He says hello right back. And hooah and all that jazz.”

 

“Good man, that one is.”

 

“He’s coming out for Christmas. Maybe you’ll meet him. I can’t promise I can get him up during your shift, though.”

 

“You have my number. All you have to do is give me a ring.”  

 

They make it to the hospital in twenty minutes and Clarke can’t help but perk up at the thought of her commute for the next three months being half as long as her last. She could handle a 3:30AM wake-up for a twenty-minute morning commute any day.

 

Her morning ends up flying by. They’d started out in orthopedic surgery, which had never really interested her before, but she’d been surprised by how fascinating all of the patients had been. She’s exhausted by the time her group finds themselves at lunch. She manages to eat an apple before she’s practically falling asleep on her hand.

 

“You’re quiet today, ” a tall and broad man says from her left. Michael, a sweet guy with a knack for surgery, elbows her gently and slides over his banana. “Hungry?”

 

She shakes her head and gives him a small smile for his kind effort. “Just a lot on my mind.”

 

“You’re a military brat.”

 

She turns to study him, always a little taken aback by how handsome he is with his dark, brown skin and vibrant eyes. “How’d you know?”

 

“You stiffen at salutes. So do I. What branch?”

 

She lets out a breath and shakes her head, smiling at being exposed. “My dad was...is Army.”

 

“Was or is?”

 

Clarke chuckles. “He was retired, but they asked him back for a consult.”

 

“Where’s he stationed?”

 

“Somewhere in Pakistan,” Clarke says, her tone soft with longing.

 

Michael nods. “Hooah,” he adds with a grin.  “My mom was Army. Dad was Navy.”

 

“Both parents. Wow.”

 

“Grandparents, great grandparents. Brother too. The old folks were Air Force. Brother’s a Marine. Just about got the entire military covered.”

 

“So you’re the black sheep of the family.”

 

He shrugs and leans back in his chair. “My family has done enough taking of lives for a few generations. Figured I’d try to save some for a change.”

 

“That’s an interesting take on the military.”

 

“You disagree?”

 

Clarke props her head on her fist. “Not necessarily. It’s complicated.”

 

“Nothing complicated about picking up a gun and taking a life.”

 

“But that’s not all there is to the military. I mean, a lot of it is about saving lives. Keeping the peace. Ensuring democracy and human rights.”

“It’s none of our business.”

 

“Isn’t it? Isn’t it our business if we can do something to help?”

 

“Have we really helped?”

 

Clarke squints at him and smiles, not quite agreeing, not disagreeing, but appreciating the discourse all the same.

 

“Well if you two are quite done flirting, we’re supposed to be down in PT and Rehab in ten minutes,” says Joe, a third-year repeat with too much potential to be allowed to quit. He pats Michael on the back and gives Clarke a wink before swiping the banana off her plate and taking off with the rest of their group.

 

“To be continued,” Michael says with a grin.

 

“Sure.”

 

“Maybe over drinks Friday? Flannigan’s?”

 

Clarke laughs. “Oh, you think you’re smooth.”

 

“A guy can try, right?”

 

“He can try.”

 

“So maybe?”

 

“Maybe. If you’re lucky.”

 

“Come on, love birds,” Joe calls back to them. “We have compound fractures to check out!”

There are no compound fractures in the Rehabilitation center as it turns out, much to Joe’s disappointment. There is, however, a bionic knee brace being trialed for the first time in the history of the technology, and Clarke could not be any geekier about it.

 

A gruff looking man steps before them, hands locked behind his back. A Navy Captain and the VA’s chief prosthetic surgeon, stares them all down in an attempt at intimidation, but Clarke has fared far worse from her father’s military friends, and does her best to hide her smile at the show of it all. If Michael looks over at her from across the group and shoots her a wink, she pretends not to notice.

 

“Our patient is a twenty-seven year-old female trialing our new bionic knee brace. She was an Air Force pilot stationed in Afghanistan when she was shot down over Kabul fifteen-months ago. In an attempt to get to a friendly border, the patient got in a fight with a land mine and came out the losing side. Upon contact with the land mine, the femur and patella was was shattered.” He looks up and nods at the raised hand in the back.

 

“I’m just wondering if there’s a particularly reason you’re not presenting in front of the patient?”

 

The Captain grins. “I’m not particularly fond of catching hands.”

 

“What?”

 

Ignoring him, the Captain turns and opens the doors to the rehabilitation room. Over his shoulder, he thinks to add, “and I suggest you not stare at the scars if you’d like keep those fresh, pretty faces in tact too. Now, let’s go.”

 

He walks them into the room and steps aside to reveal the soldier on the table. “Med students, this is First Lieutenant Raven Reyes of the United States Air Force. Lieutenant...meet the plebes.”

 

 

Not staring proves more difficult than Clarke was expecting, and it has nothing to do with the scars. The girl on the table is beautiful and witty and freakishly smart, and Clarke finds herself absolutely captivated. The group spends twenty minute with her, watching her struggle to work with the brace, dodging a plentiful amount of glares and curse words (and maybe a fist or two), and then moving on to the other patients in the room. Clarke, however, is enthralled. She lingers behind, watching Raven fiddle with the brace, enjoying the look of concentration on Raven’s brow, the determination in the set of her jaw.

 

“Can I help you with that?” She asks, when Raven yanks back her hand with a hiss and scowls at the hinge she’d been meddling with.

 

The airman’s head snaps up so fast, and the glare is so severe, Clarke doesn’t dare step any closer. Instead, she shirks off her stethoscope, placing it aside, and removes her coat, folding it over one of the empty beds.  “I might have a little more leverage from here,” she offers carefully, feeling like a mouse in the sights of a hawk. “If you want.”

 

“So that I can be just another one of you people’s experiments? I think the fuck not.”

 

“I have zero interest but to help you, Raven. I promise.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what you all say. And then you stick rods into my back and shoot electricity into my nervous system until I’m too exhausted to scream anymore. What you can do is stand right there and not come any closer. Got it?”

 

“Sure,” Clarke says easily, and takes a step back. “Whatever you want.”

 

“Shouldn’t you be running along with the rest of your lab rat friends?”

 

“I like you better.”

 

Raven scowls. “You don’t know me.”

 

“You remind me of my dad.”

 

“Oh, well doesn’t that make a girl feel great.”

 

“He’s incredible. He’s military too. All fire and passionate about the things he cares about. He knows what he wants and how to get it. He’s brilliant and kind.”  She stops and watches as Raven distractedly fiddles with the brace. “Tenacious,” she grins. After a moment, Raven looks up at her.

 

“Well, I didn’t tell you to stop, Lab Rat. Keep going.”

 

Clarke laughs. “He’s funny. Handsome too.”

 

“You calling me handsome?”

 

“Well you don’t hurt the eyes, that’s for sure.”

 

“Are you flirting with me? I’m pretty sure that breaks all kinds of doctor-patient rules.”

 

“I’m not a doctor. Not yet. And no, I’m not flirting with you, but I am trying to get to know you. Want to help me out?”

 

Raven gives it a long think, still toying with the metal attached to her leg. “Not today, Lab Rat. I’m tired. But maybe some other time.”

 

“I’m here for the next twelve weeks.”

 

“Well, I’m obviously not going anywhere anytime soon.”

 

“I can come back. I’ve got some free time tomorrow.”

 

“If you must.”

 

“Alright. I will.”  Clarke grabs her coat and goes, just barely catching Raven’s words as she opens the doors.

 

“Hey, Lab Rat!”

 

Clarke turns, looking over her shoulder.

 

“Make sure you bring those nice adjectives with you next time. As long as I have to deal with your annoying face you might as well be telling me how pretty I am.”

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
2017 | Polis

 

“Clarke? Babe, where do you want these?”  Raven rounds the corner with a pile of paper plates in her arms and a toddler hanging onto the bottom of her shorts.

 

Clarke’s head pokes around the wall and she squints in thought.

 

“Outside?” Raven supplies, handing a few to Ellie when she reaches for them to be helpful.

 

“Do you think it’ll get windy?”

 

“It’s not supposed to.” Raven rounds the kitchen counter and sets the plates down, then scoops up Ellie and plops her down on the dining table. “We’ve got another six hours before anyone starts showing up, though. You could just leave them in here.”

 

“Yeah, but I need a place to put the dishes as they come out of the oven.”

 

“Well, how ‘bout I put them in the garage with the card tables for now?”

 

“Okay, great. While you’re there, can you grab--”

 

“The propane, yeah I got it.”

 

Clarke sighs in gratitude. “Marry me?” She jokes, and Raven laughs.

 

“I don’t know why you feel the need to throw this big BBQ. No one’s expecting you to. You just moved back, you’ve got a baby. You could play it chill and no one would bat an eye. Even if you are the daughter of the town’s most beloved soldier.”

 

“I moved months ago,” Clarke laughs, “don’t give me any leeway on that or I’ll never unpack the last box.”

 

“That’s a whole other story.”

 

Clarke stops her fussing in the kitchen and leans against the counter in thought. “I want to do it. Dad loved our Memorial Day BBQ’s and it’s been too hard for mom to do it the last couple of years. It’s about time, I think. I want Ellie to know the tradition now that she’s getting older. Plus, you’ve never really gotten the chance to celebrate being a vet, and I have an amazing backyard that never gets used. It’ll be fun.”

 

“If you says so.”

 

“I do say so. And if you--”

 

But Clarke is interrupted by her front door banging open and a muttered curse wafting down the hall.

 

“O?” She calls out, glancing at Raven in a mix of trepidation and amusement.

 

“I’m fine!”

 

They step out into the hallway to see Octavia pinned between the wall and a folded ping pong table, looking helplessly defeated.

 

“I thought you were going to take that through the side yard?”

 

“The wheels wouldn’t move in the grass. You need to cut that shit. It’s like a jungle.”

“Yeah, it’s on my list.  Also watch that mouth.”

“Aunty Tavi!” Ellie comes out of nowhere, squealing and flapping, her diaper threatening to sag right off with all the excitement.

 

“Baby, hold on.” Clarke catches her just before she plows into the sharp edge of the table, and presses her to her legs. “Let mommy help Aunt Tavi and then we can say hi. Can you go sit on the couch for me?”

 

Ellie nods and toddles back to the living room, making Raven snort. “She really is like a hairless puppy.”

 

Clarke glares.

 

“What? It’s true!”

 

“She is so much cuter than a hairless dog, Raven Reyes, you watch your mouth.”

 

“I think we can all agree she’s cute,” Octavia groans, “but what’s cuter is me not being crushed to death.”

 

It takes all three of them to get the rickety old thing into the back yard. Why Octavia had insisted she steal it from her brother’s and bring it over in the first place Clarke would never know, but she’d long given up on trying to make sense of her childhood friend.

 

Once back inside, Clarke feels herself blanch at all the things left to do. The mac and cheese needs to bake, the potato salad needs to be made, the watermelon cut, the beer and hot dogs bought, the toppings chopped and placed on trays. The grass needs to be handled, the back patio sweeped off, the volleyball net set up and secured. She has her surgery in a little bit, and that’s going to eat up most of the afternoon. Then there’s getting Ellie fed and dressed. She won’t bother with a bath before the cookout as she’ll just get covered in food and dirt inevitably. She should also try to pick-up a little seeing as how people will be coming in for the bathroom...

 

A dull bang and a subsequent wail jars her from her thoughts. Her baby’s tears twist in her stomach no matter how often she’s heard them, and she whips around to find Ellie on the kitchen floor by the door, balling her eyes out next to her overturned high-chair.

 

“What happened?” She rushes over and scoops Ellie up, checking her little body all over for harm. She looks to Raven and Octavia who both look equally as bewildered and confused. “Did she hit her head? Did you see?”

 

“I have no idea. She was fine just a second ago. I don’t know what happened.”

 

“Octavia?”

 

“I was in the back.”

 

“Baby girl,” Clarke coos, bouncing Ellie gently in her arms. “Did you hit your head?”

 

It takes Ellie a moment to stop crying enough to shake her head and bury her face into the crook of Clarke’s neck. Clarke rubs Ellie’s back and continues to gently bounce her as she looks around the kitchen, and at the overturned high-chair.

 

“I think it’s nap time,” she sighs when Ellie’s tears have subsided to an occasional sleepy sniffle.

 

“Don’t you have to go, Momma?” Octavia nods at the clock on the wall.

 

“Oh sh….yes,” Clarke catches herself, though Ellie is already mostly asleep on her shoulder. “Could you get her down for me?”

 

Octavia takes Ellie from Clarke’s arms, careful not to wake her. “In her room?”

 

“She’ll want to be in the guest room if you’re going to be down here. I think Raven’s on her way out for a bit too.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve got to go see Wells for a minute and then I’ll be right back to help you, O.” Raven swings around them and presses a kiss to Ellie’s head, then Clarke’s cheek, and smacks Octavia on the butt before heading out.  “Oh, Clarke, I’m gonna grab the soda from my fridge on my way back. I’ll see you later.”

 

Clarke blows her a kiss and turns back to Octavia and her baby. “I should be back by three. She’ll probably sleep the whole time. If you go outside, just be sure to take the monitor with you.”

 

“Believe it or not, Love, I’ve babysat my godchild before,” Octavia says with a grin at the endlessly worried mother. “We’ll be fine.”

 

“I know you will.”

 

“Just think of how much I’ll have done for you to come back to.”

 

“You are a lifesaver, O. I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.”

 

Octavia shrugs and grabs Clarke’s jacket off the back of a chair. “You have to go. Here, it might rain.”

 

Clarke grabs it with a grimace. “Oh, please don’t tell me that.”

 

“It’s a low chance. Everything will be fine. Get going and don’t cut the brain stem.”

 

Clarke laughs as she’s ushered to the front door. “It’s not that kind of surgery. And I just hold the tools.”

 

Octavia scoffs. “Do you think they have any idea how smart you are or that you could probably operate circles around them had you been able to finish school? I mean, seriously, do they know what you scored on your second licensing exam? Or that you, oh I don’t know, did it a year _early_? Honestly. Holding tools. It’s ridiculous.”

 

Clarke kisses Ellie’s head and only grins at Octavia’s comment. “I’ve got to go. I”ll see you in a bit. She can have one cup of juice when she wakes up, but _no_ more than that. Please don’t be like Raven.”

 

Octavia snorts. “Am I ever? You know I’m the responsible one.”

 

“You’re both awful and spoil her rotten,” Clarke laughs and jogs down the stairs. “Call me if you need me!”  

 

* * *

 

Down the road, it’s a quiet, late Summer morning at the fire station. It’s still too early on a Saturday for most of the town to be out and about, but the birds are awake and an occasional lawn mower grumbles in the distance. It’s the kind of lazy morning that promises to turn into a lovely day--quiet and still, with a breeze that smells like hot pavement and cut grass. Lexa welcomes it eagerly.

 

The station is just as peaceful with the exception of Roan’s heavy boot steps as he lumbers into the small kitchen and goes straight for the donut holes on the counter. He’s a creature of habit, and his consistency has become something of a creature comfort over the years.  She grins behind her morning paper at the sound of his drowsy frustration when he ducks into the fridge.

 

“It’s behind the orange juice,” she says.

 

“What is?”

 

“The milk you’re looking for.”

 

“No it’s not. I just looked.”

 

“It’s back there,” she repeats, turning a page.

 

“No, it’s--oh.” He pulls out of the fridge and pours himself a glass, then ambles over to her and sits down across from her. “You see Gus’ e-mail?”

 

She yawns into her mug of coffee and nods, not looking up from her paper.

 

“You going?”

 

“Maybe. Probably. Depends on what Anya’s doing.”

 

“What, you can’t go without her?”

 

She looks up from her paper. “Do _you_ want to go to one of your uncle’s BBQs without a contingency plan? My threshold for hearing about the good ‘ol days in Daytona only goes so far.”  

 

“Fair. Food could be good though.”

 

“Always is.”

 

“His niece will probably be there. Doesn’t she have the hots for you?”

 

With a sigh, Lexa drops her paper to the table. “Roan?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m trying to read.”

 

“You know they have iPads for that kind of thing now.”

 

“I like the way the paper feels.”

 

“You’re like an old man trapped in a child’s body.”

 

“I’m the farthest thing from a child.”

 

“Just wait until you’re reaching forty and things start to creak. Thirty-one will feel like heaven.”

 

“Yeah, my back says otherwise.” She gives herself a good stretch against the back of her chair and is slow to rise, stiff in her knees and countless other joints that pop as she moves. There’s the slightest limp to her step as she crosses to the sink and starts in on the small pile of dishes one of their rookies left, yet again.

  
“Looks likes yesterday’s fire caught up to your back.”

 

“Most things do these days.”

 

“That job was crazy.”

 

“Yeah, it was.”

 

“You see your doc about it?”

 

“The job?”

 

“The back.”

 

Lexa shrugs. “Nah. It’ll heal. Always does.”

 

“It never does.”

 

“It has its ups and downs.”

 

Roan snorts. “You know when I sent you to Gus, I was trying to get you _out_ of danger. Not back in it.”  
  
“And yet, here you are. Never could keep you off my back for long. You’re like an unscratchable itch.”

 

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

 

“Never could, could you?”

 

“Says the one who got herself blown up.”

 

Fitting them like a favorite, threadbare sweater, their banter fills the morning calm as sprinklers spit on, balls bounce against pavement, cars whoosh down the road, and another long summer day is ushered into being.

 

The boys mill about in the garage, just as listless as the clouds in the endless blue of the sky, and Lexa could not be more unbothered if she tried. It’s the perfect day for the garage doors to be open, and she relishes in the opportunity to sit in her station’s driveway and watch the day go about it’s languid business.

 

“You ever see a house go up that fast?” Roan asks, plopping down next to Lexa in a lawn chair.

 

“What are we talking about?” Max and Chavez appear behind them, apples in hand, signature grins already locked into place.

 

“That house on Hawthorne yesterday. Went up like kindling,” Roan supplies, kicking up his feet on a cooler Lexa was moments away from digging into. She shoves his legs off and grabs a can of Coke, rolling her eyes when his legs return the second the lid is closed.  

 

“Shit, that one was hot as hell. Hey, throw me one,” Max gruffs out in his low, gravelly voice.

 

Lexa, taking delight in shoving Roan’s legs off again, grabs a can and tosses it to Max.

 

“Nah, man. Your _girlfriend_ is hot as hell. That house was just straight up hell,” Chavez says with a glint in his dark, green eyes.

 

“You keep my girlfriend out of your mouth or we can see what actual hell looks like.”

 

“Easy,” Lexa warns, protective of her peaceful, quiet day.

 

“It’s the weather this summer,” Roan fills. “You know what they say...hot and dry--”

 

“Firefighter’s die,” the boys chime in unison. The ridiculousness of the sentiment makes Lexa scoff.

 

“That’s an awful saying you’d be wise to keep out of my firehouse,” she barks.  

 

“It’s true though. Hot and dry, our brothers die. Just the way it is.”

 

“The sexism inherent in that statement alone is enough to have me benching your ass for the rest of the day.” Lexa snaps. “The absurdity of the implication on top of that does not bode well for you I promise you that.” She chucks her empty can into the trash. “Hot and dry makes it hard to contain. You die when you’re reckless or unlucky, not because of some asinine saying. I don’t want to hear it again, are we clear?”

 

“Yes, Cap,” they say together as Lexa leans back in her chair and brings her sunglasses down over her eyes.

 

“Good. Now, who wants to try to beat me one on one?”

They’re out back at their mounted basketball hoop for an astonishing two hours before a call comes in and shatters the illusion of their slow, peaceful afternoon. Luckily, they don’t have to go far. The familiar house is just around the corner, and Lexa finds herself biting back a smile as she hops off the truck and walks towards the elderly woman hobbling out of her front door.

 

“Mrs. Jenkins,” she calls out in greeting.

 

“Oh, Alexa, sweetheart. I’m so glad you’re here. I cannot find my medicine!”

 

Lexa meets the elderly woman halfway up the front walk and lets her grab onto her arm for balance. “Now, you know you’re only supposed to call us in an emergency, Mrs. Jenkins.”

 

“What do you think this is?” The woman says incredulously. “If I don’t take my medicine, I am going to die!”

 

Lexa chuckles and guides the woman back towards the house. “You’re not going to die.”

 

“It’s for my blood pressure!”

 

“I know that, but you’re not going to die if you miss a dose. Come on, let’s go look for it.”

 

“Cap?” Roan calls after her.

 

She turns to them and gestures to the truck. “Head out. I’ll meet you back at the station. Roan, be me while I’m gone.”

 

“I’ll try my best,” he says with a teasing grin and rounds the guys up. “See you back, cap.”

 

Lexa helps the woman up the stairs and sits her down in a rocking chair on the front porch as she usually does.

 

“Where did you last have your medicine?”

 

“Same place as always.”

 

“The second drawer to the right of the sink?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Okay, can I go in and look around?”

 

“You better, Alexa!”

 

“Mrs. J, you know you can call me Lexa.”

 

“I’m going to call a proper young lady such as yourself by her proper name, Alexa. Now, get to it. I’m not getting any younger.”

 

With a chuckle, Lexa pats the woman on the shoulder and heads inside. She checks the usual spots--by the stove, under the fridge, in the bathroom--but for once, she can’t seem to track the bottle down. She stands in the living room, trying to figure out what the old woman had been up to based on the remnant left behind. There’s a TV Dinner on the table next to the rocking chair—probably an early lunch. She walks over to it and runs her hand through the cracks in the cushions. Nothing. She checks under the coffee table, but still no luck. For minutes, she searches, determined to find the bottle she’s usually able to track down, but eventually, she has to admit defeat. She heads back down the hall to the front door, rubbing at the back of her neck apologetically.

 

“Mrs. J?”

 

“Did you find it?”

 

Lexa steps back onto the porch and frowns. “It seems to be quite lost this time.”

 

“What am I going to do?”

 

“We’re going to take you to the pharmacy to get you a refill. Where do you get your prescriptions?”

 

“The hospital. But I’m not allowed to drive.”

 

“I’m going to drive you. Where are your keys?”

 

Lexa is always a little amazed at how such an old woman manages to have the energy to say so much in so little time. Mrs. Jenkins’ prattling is as good as the radio when it comes to entertainment, providing a steady stream of amusing and useless information Lexa never knew she needed until the moment the widower started speaking.  Mrs. Jenkin’s car is much like its owner in that way. It’s a stick shift, something Lexa hadn’t driven in the years since leaving her job at the shop, but it comes back to her like riding a bike, and puts a smile on her face. She hadn’t realized she’d missed the sensation until now, and the memories it brings up makes her think that maybe she will go to Gus’ BBQ, regardless of Anya’s schedule.

 

“You know Alexa, you really should wear something more flattering than those cargo pants if you want to find yourself a wife anytime soon.”

 

Lexa laughs and nearly runs a stop sign, she is so taken aback by the comment. “I’m on duty, Mrs. J. You know I don’t wear these all the time, right?”

 

“I should hope not.”

 

“Some girls like a gal in uniform.”

 

“Not that kind of uniform, doll.”

 

Lexa just grins and pulls into the Hospital’s visitor lot.

 

 

* * *

 

Raven Reyes, who usually stops for nothing, stares up at the police station set high off the street in a mixture of fury and frustration. She hadn’t come this far in life by taking the easy road, but the seep, seemingly endless stairs up to the police station, however, prove to be an undertaking she’s not sure she has the energy for today.  She practically growls at the still defunct ADA ramp-- rendered useless last winter when a drunk driver plowed into it-- and walks over to the railing to lean on. One of these days she’ll figure out how to expand her brace’s range of motion without compromising it’s stability, but in the meantime, she hikes her hip and throws her leg onto the first step.  It’s a process, but one she has perfected. That doesn’t, however, mean that she is not incredibly grumpy and sweaty when she finally walks into the precinct.

 

“You need to oil that thing, Reyes, I can hear you coming from a mile away” the desk sergeant, a wiry, young man named John, glares at her without bothering to look up from his paperwork.

 

“And you can fuck right off, Murphy.”

 

“Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine.”

 

“You’d know, sweetheart. How ‘bout you get that fucking ramp fixed and we can talk about just how bright and happy I am. Is ADA compliance a foreign concept to you people or are you just too ignorant to care?”

 

“You’re not a cripple. Use the stairs.”

 

“Wow, um okay, I don’t even know where to start with how obscenely offensive that was. Me, a person with a disability, gets to call myself cripple, if I want. You, a person with no disability other than your startling inability to use use common decency, does _not_ get to pass judgement on whatever accessibility differences you may or may not perceive me to have. Your stupidity is confounding, Murphy, honestly.”

 

Murphy grunts. “Well, what do you want?”

 

“Jaha here?”

 

“Yeah, why?”

 

“Because I want to slice his ear off and feed it to my dog? Why do you think? I want to talk to him.”

 

“Why is everything so violent with you?”

 

“You make me violent. Tell him to come out here.”

 

“You do realize you can’t order a cop around, right?”

 

“You’re barely a cop, Murph. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m barely disabled. Guess we’re even.”

 

“Murphy!” A new voice booms around the room. “What the hell is taking so long on that report? I asked for it on Thursday.”   A woman, roughly the size of a skyscraper, rounds the corner in black combat boots and a scowl to match. “What are you doing?”

 

“Talking to a civilian.”

 

Raven barks out an incredulous laugh. “A civilian? You a soldier now, Murph?”

 

“Who the hell are you?” The woman quickly snaps her attention to Raven, bearing an insane glare.

 

Raven does not gulp, but if her breath shakes more than normal, well who the hell is going to blame her? This woman is a nightmare of perfection.

 

“Raven Reyes. Who the hell are _you?_ ” She puts on her best glare in return and sizes the woman up, not at all hating what she finds in the woman’s long, lithe body and exceptional bone structure.  The woman, infuriatingly, intoxicatingly, looks her up and down once and turns back to Murphy without answering Raven’s question. “I want that report done by lunch. Can you handle that, John?”

 

John grumbles under his breath and Raven watches on in amused awe as the woman asks hims if he wants to repeat that, and walks off when all he does is shake his head and fuss with the papers on his desk.

 

“Okay….who the _fuck_ was that and how do I marry her?”

 

“Don’t bother,” John grumbles. “Can’t make someone have feelings for you if they don’t have any feelings to begin with.”

 

“Okay, well first of all, you don’t _make_ people have feelings for you, John. That could maybe be why you haven’t had a date in the time that I’ve known you. Second of all, she clearly does have feelings. They’re just not so much your speed. _My_ radar, on the other hand, reads her loud and clear.”

 

“You are so fucking weird, Reyes.”

 

“Back atcha, killer. So, who was that?”

 

“She’s a fire marshall. You haven’t seen her around before?”

 

“Jesus, the fire chicks in this town are insane. You guys putting something in your water?”

 

“What?”

 

“Forget it. What’s her name?”

 

“Seriously, you don’t know her?”

 

“Murphy, why would I?”

 

“I mean, you diffuse bombs, she solves fires or whatever. You run in the same circles, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah, that’s not quite how that works. But believe you me, it’s about to.”

 

“Why, because she chewed me out? Is that what turns you on, Reyes? If so, you should hang around more often.”

 

Raven laughs. “Oh, don’t wallow, John. It doesn’t suit you.  I still need to talk to Wells. You gonna tell him to come out here or what?”

 

“You heard her. I have shit to do. Just go back there yourself.”

 

“Aw, you gonna buzz me in?”

 

He rolls his eyes and gestures her past the desk. “Obviously. Please. Go. Get out of my face before she comes back.”

 

She slides past him and down the short hallway to the locked door leading to the bullpen. “If she does, tell her I think she’s hot,” she calls back.

 

* * *

 

“You have everything you need?” Lexa asks, walking Mrs. Jenkins up to the long line at pharmacy window.

 

“I think so. Is this right?”

 

Lexa takes her glasses out of her breast pocket and eyes the prescription slip. “Looks good. Got your ID?”

 

“In my purse.”

 

“Good. You’re all set then. I’ll just wait back here, okay?”

 

“Why don’t you be a doll and get us something to drink while we wait?” Mrs. Jenkins pulls out her wallet, but Lexa smiles and gently pushes it back.

 

“Hang onto that. I’ll grab us something. Don’t go anywhere.”

 

Lexa feels more at home in the hospital than she probably should, but it makes sense given how much time she’s spent in and out of them. The faces are friendly and familiar, the food isn’t half as bad as everyone makes it out to be, and she appreciates all the windows and the light they let in. For such an awful, impersonal place, it’s surprisingly peaceful during the day.

 

There is a sense of belonging for her here. She knows the hallways well, where every turn leads, where the faster elevators are, what double doors to avoid to evade being smacked in the face when they fly open with an oncoming gourney. She knows where the interns hide out for lunch, sometimes bringing them a traveler of coffee and a box of donuts when she has the time. The Physical Therapy ward might as well be home away from home by now, though her therapist transferred hospitals several years back. For all there is to hate about the hospital, Lexa finds something to love.

 

She’s lost in her own thoughts when she rounds the corner and nearly topples over a tiny wheelchair.  A warm hand clutches her elbow and helps steady her, laughing all the while.

 

“You’re awfully clumsy for a firefighter.” Dr. Jane Thompson, a woman as sharp as a scalpel and as sweet as the butterfly pin on her white coat, dusts Lexa off with a smile and shakes her head. “Haven’t seen you around here in awhile.”

 

“I’ve been around.”

 

“Just avoiding me then?”

 

“I don’t spend much time in Peds, believe it or not,” Lexa teases casually. “I’m just headed to the caf. Thought I’d take a short cut.”

 

“Ah. After those jello cups, huh?”

 

“A drink, actually.”

 

Dr. Thompson hums. Then, “How’ve you been, Lex?”

 

“Good, good. You know. Keeping busy.” Lexa shoves her hands in her pockets and rocks back on her heels. It’s not that talking to her ex makes her nervous per say--enough time has passed to make their friendship easy and unassuming--it’s just that there’s history here. History that once did not look so fondly on them.

 

“I think this may be against the rules, but you are still so cute when you’re shy.”

 

Lexa gives a huff of a laugh and shakes her head, eyes on the floor. “Definitely against the rules.”

 

“Friends don’t say that to each other?”

 

“Definitely not.”

 

“Well, can you blame me?”

 

“It’s been a couple years, so yeah, I think I can. I think Greg would too.” Lexa looks up and grins. Jane was lovely for a time, but they were never meant to last, and they both knew it. It was bittersweet. For two people so naturally generous with their hearts when it came to everyone else,  they just never could seem to make it click with each other. When Lexa found Jane in an on-call room with the resident that would later become her husband, she could barely bring herself to care. She knew it’d been over before that, but that day--with Greg’s hand down her girlfriend’s scrubs and only a guilty sense of relief flooding through Lexa, she’d known they’d hit their point of no return.  

 

“Greg’s an idiot. You were always the real catch. I messed that one up.” Jane says it with a teasing smile, but Lexa can still read her like she once could, and there’s a sincerity to Jane’s words that makes her skin crawl. They’d been over and done with for years. Now seemed like a strange time to be rehashing things.

 

“Water under the bridge,” Lexa says, as flippant as she can. “Greg’s great.”

 

Jane smiles, almost dreamy as she fondly plays with the wedding ring on her finger. “Yeah, he is. I suppose I’m just feeling a little possessive.”

 

“Possessive?”

 

“Yeah. There’s a new girl in our department. It’s been going around that she has the hots for you.”

 

Lexa nearly chokes on her own sharp intake of air. “In your...in Peds?”

 

“Mhm. She’s cute too. And real sweet. I think you’d like her.”

 

Lexa nods casually. At least she thinks it’s casual. She tries her best to keep her tone even. “That’s interesting. She a doctor or?”

 

“A nurse.”

 

“A nurse. Wow,” Lexa puffs out her cheeks with an exhale and rocks back onto her heels again. “What’s uh...what’s her name?”

 

“You interested?”

 

“What, me? No. No, I’m just curious.”

 

“Uh huh. Her name’s Lucy. She’s a NICU nurse.”

 

“Oh.” Lexa does her best not to deflate. But if she can still read Jane, Jane must see through her like plastic wrap.

 

Jane smirks. “Oh my god, you already have a crush on someone in my department, don’t you?”

 

Lexa scoffs. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t...I don’t have a crush. What are we, thirteen? You just said. I mean, _you_ said. You brought it up.”

 

“What’s her name.”

 

“Seriously, Jane--”

 

“What’s her name, hot stuff. Cough it up.”

 

“You are _way_ off this time, Jay. I really don’t know what--”

 

“Lexa?” Clarke’s voice cuts her off mid-sentence, and Lexa turns her head so quickly, she feels the muscles in the side of her neck strain.

 

“Clarke, hey.” It’s not supposed to sound so breathless, but god it does, and she can practically feel Jane’s smirk burning a hole through the side of her face.

 

Clarke takes a hesitant step forward. “Are you two done? I can wait, I don’t mean to interrupt.”

 

Jane finally sets her sights off of Lexa and turns to Clarke. “No, I was just leaving. By the way, thanks for your help in the OR today. I know it’s supposed to be your day off, but you were clutch.”

 

“Oh.” Clarke waves her off. “No problem. Thanks for letting me scrub in.”

 

“Happy to. You’d make a great surgeon, I think. You have incredibly steady hands. You ever consider going to med school?”

 

Lexa watches Clarke smile politely as she shrugs and searches for something to say. The obvious discomfort in Clarke’s body language makes Lexa feel like crawling out of her own skin lest she do something to ease the beautiful woman’s struggle.

 

“Nurses are important too, and Clarke’s an amazing nurse,” Lexa blurts. She just barely keeps herself from clutching at her own mouth in shocked embarrassment. Clarke looks up at her with a furrowed brow and confused smile while Jane actually snorts as she rolls her eyes.

 

“Clarke, come find me later,” Jane says, patting her on the shoulder before turning to leave. With her back to Clarke, she stares at Lexa with wide, amused eyes for a moment, revelling in Lexa’s furious blush. “ _Oh my god,”_ she mouths at before winking and walking away. If it weren’t for Clarke standing between them, Lexa might actually throttle the surgeon.

 

“Do you two know each other?”

 

“What?” Lexa draws her eyes away from Jane’s retreating figure, and almost startles to find those familiar, yet indecipherable blue eyes staring back at her.

 

“You and Dr. Thompson?”

 

“Oh! Uh, yeah a little bit. We dated a few years back.”

 

“I’d say that’s more than a little bit,” Clarke says with a chuckle that is not quite as carefree as it usually is.

 

“It was a long time ago. We’re basically strangers these days. I don’t come to this side of the hospital often.”

 

“Any particular reason?”

 

“Uh, well--” Lexa scratches at her neck and shrugs. “Sick babies make me sad.”

 

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Clarke laughs, and some of that easy way about her starts to return.

 

An awkward silence settles over them for a moment before Clarke picks it up. “So what brings you to this side of the hospital? Everything okay?”

 

“Oh, totally. I was headed to the cafeteria. Took the shortcut.”

 

“Wow. You know the secret shortcut. I’m impressed.”

 

“Yeah, well. The PT wing is just over there and I’ve spent my fair share of time there.”

 

“That makes sense. I imagine your firefighters are in and out of here all the time.”  

 

Lexa doesn’t think it important to tell Clarke that the majority of her time spent at this hospital had been long before she’d ever walked into a fire station. Her past is complicated, and violent, and not something remotely appropriate for the sweet, soft woman before her. Before she can answer, before she’s really quite sure what’s happening, Clarke takes Lexa’s jaw between her fingers and turns her head to the side with a gentle, but sure motion.

 

“This is on its way to infected,” Clarke says sternly, staring up at Lexa with frustration in those expressive eyes of hers. It takes Lexa a second to figure out that Clarke is referring to the gash on her neck she’d gotten in the fire yesterday.

 

“Oh, that? It’s--it’s fine, it’s just a little--”

 

“Look up.”

 

“Okay,” Lexa breathes. She does as she’s told, looking away to stare at the wall when Clarke lifts to her toes and leans into her space for a better look.

 

“This is deep, Lexa. I need to clean this.”

 

“No, really. That’s okay,” Lexa nearly squeaks. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears and her head is too light to keep her grounded. She sucks in her lower lip and does her best to stay upright when Clarke hooks her fingers into Lexa’s uniform polo and peels it away from the crook of her neck. The skin of Clarke’s fingers on her neck is so soft, Lexa’s eyes flutter closed and a scorching heat starts to rise through her without any regard for Lexa’s attempt at calm, cool and collected.

 

“It’s bleeding.”

 

“Yeah, uh, it’s been doing that. But look, I’ve actually got someone waiting on me in the other wing. I was getting her a drink. She’s very old. Very fragile. I don’t want her to--”

 

“She’s in a hospital, Lexa, I think she’ll manage without you for five minutes,” Clarke snaps. “Come on. I’m not going to ask twice.”

 

 

 

The exam room is small and quiet, the noises of the hospital muffled by the closed door and Clarke’s steady breathing in Lexa’s ear as she skillfully pushes a needle and surgical thread through Lexa’s skin. For her part, Lexa tries to stay calm, clenching her fists against her thighs and counting tiles on the ceiling.

“How’d this happen?”

 

“We had a bad fire yesterday.”

 

“I figured as much. I meant, what happened?”

 

Lexa goes to shrug, but it pulls on Clarke’s work, and Lexa hisses at the sharp sting that tears down her neck and into her shoulder.

 

“Ouch, you’re okay,” Clarke soothes, pressing her cold, gloved palm to the wound firmly to take the edge off. When Lexa relaxes, she continues her work. “You were inside?”

 

“Yeah.” Lexa takes a deep breath, already on her way to exhausted at having to keep her cool. She couldn’t even begin to count the number of stitches she’s had in her lifetime, and yet the never seemed to get any easier to bear.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Not a fan of needles.”

 

“I’m almost done.”

 

Lexa nods and once again regrets her thoughtless actions. It tugs and Clarke clucks at her, not taking her eyes off her task. “Try to stay still.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Tell me about your day. Who are you here with?”

 

“Mrs. Jenkins. She lives down the road from the station. Sort of the same as you, but on the other side.”

 

“On Robinson.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What’s she like?”

 

“Her husband died a few years back and she’s taken to calling the station every time she loses her medicine. I drove her here to get her prescription refilled. I think she gets lonely,” Lexa says with a fond chuckle.

 

“You’re sweet,” Clarke muses softly after a second.

 

“I enjoy her company too.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“She has lots of good stories.”

 

“I bet she does. Can you look that way for a second? I’m almost done.”

 

Lexa turns her head and renews her study of the exam room’s bland features. She reads through the Ear Infection Symptoms sign by the door, skims the titles of the pamphlets on the counter. Her eyes flutter shut each time Clarke’s fingers skim the sensitive skin of her neck, too distracted at first to mention the numbing agent’s dissipation, too shy now having gotten this far into it. It’s good enough to curb the sting, but Lexa feels every press of Clarke’s cold fingers.

 

“So that fire. What got you? Wood? Metal?”

 

“I, uh...I’m not sure.”

 

“I ask because I need to know whether or not to give you a tetanus shot.”

 

Lexa clears her throat to hide her nerves. “Wood, I believe.”

 

Clarke rolls away on her stool and grabs a bandage. When she rolls back, she hesitates in front of Lexa, studying her.

 

“You’re not lying to me, are you? Avoiding a shot because of the needle?”

 

Lexa shakes her head earnestly, reveling in Clarke’s responding smile.

 

“You sure?”

 

“It came from above. Looked like a support beam. Those are almost always wood in houses. Steel if it’s commercial, but this was a small craftsman, probably built in the forties. Structure would be all wood.”

 

“You have lots of experience getting hit with falling beams?”

 

Lexa smiles at the beautiful grin that crosses Clarke’s features with the question. She lifts her chin when Clarke goes to apply the bandage, chewing down onto her bottom lip when the press of it burns a little. “I’ve seen a lot of buildings come down, I guess,” she says, voice slightly tight from the ache in her neck.

 

Clarke nods and rolls back to the counter. She’s strangely quiet as she peels off her gloves and discards everything into the waste bin. She stands and Lexa watches her curiously, letting her have her apparent, sudden need for space.

 

“I would do this pro bono if I could,” Clarke says at last, eyes trained on filling out the form on the counter. “But that’d likely get me fired. Your insurance should take care of it, though.”

 

“I’m not worried.”

 

Still, Clarke doesn’t look at her, not until Lexa nudges the stool forward with her toe, gently bumping it into Clarke’s leg. Clarke looks over at her quickly, something dark swirling in her eyes. It makes Lexa’s stomach churn, but before she can ask, Clarke is speaking again. Her voice is cool and detached, and Lexa’s heart squeezes at the sound of it.

 

“I gave you absorbable stitches. They’ll dissolve and fall out on their own in about three weeks.”

 

“Clarke--”

 

“Keep them dry for the next forty-eight hours. After that, you can shower with them. Just be gentle and--”

 

“Clarke.”

 

“Yes?”

 

Lexa smiles softly and stands. She risks a step forward, feeling a little triumphant when Clarke doesn’t retreat. She reaches past Clarke and takes the form, rolling it up in her hands. “This isn’t my first rodeo,” she says gently.

 

“Right. Or course not.” Clarke pushes a strand of hair behind her ear and turns back to the counter, fiddling with the jars of cotton swabs and tongue depressors.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Clarke nods, back still turned. “Just, uh. Just try to be careful, okay? No more falling beams.” She turns and Lexa watches her falter at the realization of how close they’d become. Lexa steps back and tips the rolled up form in thanks.

 

“I’ll do my best.”

 

“Yeah, good. Good.” Clarke steps out of the way and gestures to the door. “Say hello to your friend for me.”

 

“I will.”

 

“You can blame me for your absence.”

 

“I will,” Lexa repeats with a chuckle. “I’ll see you around?”

 

“Yes. We need to schedule that coffee.”

 

Lexa beams, her heart soaring at the idea that maybe they hadn’t been knocked off track quite as far as she’d thought. Clarke still wants coffee, still wants to try to be friends.

 

“Right,” she says, trying and failing to hide her grin. “Next week?”

 

“I’m sure that will work.”

 

“Great.”

 

Lexa stands in the doorway a moment longer, her lip between her teeth in barely restrained excitement at having been around Clarke for so long, uninterrupted. With a final nod, she turns and leaves. She’s almost to the end of the hall when Clarke calls out and comes jogging up behind her.

 

“Hey, sorry” Clarke says a little breathless. “I was just wondering what you’re doing later.”

 

“Oh. Today?”

 

Clarke nods.

 

“I’m working. One of my lieutenants is out with a cold, so I’ve got a double shift.”

 

“Ah. Okay, then.”

 

“Did you need something? Is your car okay?”

 

“Oh no. The car’s fine. It’s great, actually. Thanks again.”

 

“Sure, yeah. Of course. Ellie’s...she’s okay?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. She’s good. Terrible, but good,” Clarke shakes her head and says with a laugh. “It’s nothing bad. I actually--I just have a little thing I’m throwing tonight, around seven. Nothing big, just.” Clarke shrugs.

 

“Oh. Fun.”

 

“Yeah, you know. A few friends. Food and drinks, some volleyball. Lots of Red, White and Blue pomp and circumstance.”

 

“That sounds awesome. I’m sorry to have to miss. Assuming that was an invitation?”

 

“Oh, yeah.” Clarke laughs. “I’m sorry, that was totally an invitation. I told you. Social skills.” She throws a thumb over her shoulder, “Out the window.”

 

“I’m working til about eight tonight, but maybe next time.”

 

“Sure, yeah. There will be more.”

 

“I look forward to it.”

 

“Great.”

 

They stand there, Clarke with her hands in her pockets, Lexa scratching at the back of her neck, unsure of how to part ways again.

 

“So--”

 

“I’ll see you--”

 

They both chuckle, amused and embarrassed at themselves.

 

“I should go. Mrs. Jenkins…”

 

“Yeah, of course. Please.”

 

Lexa grins. “I’ll see you later, Clarke.”

 

Clarke gives her a wave and Lexa is retreating, not entirely against the idea of Clarke stopping her again. Clarke doesn’t, however, and Lexa finds Mrs. Jenkins in the ER lobby waiting room, deeply engrossed in a well-worn People magazine.

 

She curses under her breath when she realizes she’d forgotten the drink she originally set out to get, and runs over to a vending machine before re-approaching, an apology on the tip of her tongue. Before she can speak though, the old woman beats her to it.

 

“There you are. Have fun?”

 

“What?”

 

Mrs. Jenkins lowers the magazine and peers at Lexa over her glasses. “Did you have fun with that pretty nurse?”

 

“I--”

 

“I may be old, Alexa, but I am not dull.”

 

“Of course you’re not.” Lexa holds out the bottle of water and extends her arm when Mrs. Jenkins moves to get up.

 

“Did she like the uniform?”

 

Lexa laughs as they leave the waiting room. If she happens to blush bright red, Mrs. Jenkins (for once in her life) keeps quiet about it.

 

 

* * *

 

“Wells! Buddy, ‘ol pal!”

 

Wells Jaha, lead detective for the Polis Police Department, swivels around on his chair, grinning at Raven’s approach.  “Wow. Special occasion. What’s Counter Terrorism want with little old me?”

 

“I come as the platonic lover of your best friend, godmother to a third of your goddaughter.” She smiles devilishly and sits down in a chair at the unoccupied desk next to his. “I’m here as a friend. Forget titles.”

 

Wells shakes his head and leans back in his chair. “What can I do for you?”

 

“A little birdie told me your captain is putting together a joint task force to look into that string of bomb threats down the coast.”

 

Wells sits up abruptly, looking around. “Who told you that?”

 

“I just told you. A little birdie.”

 

“Seriously, Reyes.” He stands and beckons her into a holding room, closing the door. “That task force is being headed up by the _FBI_ ,” he hisses. “No one should know about it.”

 

“Well then, you guys need to get a lot better at keeping your secrets a secret.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Don’t look so shocked. I started in Air Force intelligence. I know my way around snooping.”

 

Wells runs his hand over his face and looks at the closed door. “Tell me who told you and _maybe_ I’ll consider whatever your impossible ask is about to be.”

 

“I’m not gonna do that, but what I will do is promise that the leak never leads back to you.”

 

“Reyes--”

 

“Come on, Jaha,” Raven pleads. “You owe me.”

 

Wells looks away with a frustrated scowl. Raven was right. He’d gotten stuck on a case a few months ago, no more evidence to move him forward. The perp was former Air Force, and it had been Raven’s discovery of invaluable evidence that had propelled Wells to crack it. It got him a promotion to boot.

 

“What’s the ask?” He grumbles reluctantly.

 

“I want on.”

 

He scoffs.

 

“I’m serious. Come on, you and I both know I’m the best bomb specialist in New England. Only reason Roland hasn’t asked me himself is because of my flare up.”

 

“Maybe he has a point. You’re supposed to be letting that heal, not jumping onto a task force.”

 

“The knee is fine, and they need my brain,” Raven says. “I’m just asking for a nudge.”

 

Wells leans back onto the lone desk in the room. “What makes you think a nudge from me means anything?”

 

“Because you’re sleeping with that pretty FBI agent from Westbrook.”

 

“And?”

 

“And she’s Roland’s niece.”

 

“How the _hell_ do you know that?” Wells asks, astonished.

 

Raven waggles her eyebrows, but offers nothing else.

 

Wells sighs and stands. “I’ll drop your name. That’s all I can do.”

 

“I’ll take it.” She follows him out of the room, her hand coming to his shoulder in a brotherly pat when they stop at his desk. “You’re coming tonight, right?”

 

“I’m bringing the beer.”

 

“Great.” She gives him a lazy salute and starts to leave. “Oh wait,” she stops and turns.

 

“No more asks, Reyes.”

 

“This one’s harmless, I promise.”

 

He raises his brow. That’s doubtful.

 

“Do you know an Anya?”

 

“Anya Woods?”

 

“She a fire marshal?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Raven nods, thinking.

 

“Why?”

 

“You like her?” Raven asks, trying to keep her tone casual.

 

Wells shrugs. “She’s good people. You need her?”

 

“Nope. Just curious.” She starts to go.

 

“You’re never just curious,” Wells calls after her.

 

“I am for now.”

 

“You’re up to no good, Reyes. I’m calling it.”

 

She laughs. “I’ll see you tonight. Don’t be late, Clarke’s stressed.”

 

“When is she not?”

 

Raven just waves and retreats out the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Boss?”

 

Lincoln sticks his head into Lexa’s office, looking a little pale.

 

Lexa looks up from a pile of paperwork, removing her glasses at the sight of panic on Lincoln’s face. She’d been back from the hospital for not more than three hours before a flurry of calls had come, leaving her station nearly deserted. The night shift was always like this, and she’d been glad to avoid it almost entirely since her promotion. She’d gone out on two more calls, before sending her lieutenants out in her stead so she could attempt to get some paperwork done. “What’s up?”

 

“Our rigs are all out and there’s a call out from dispatch. It sounds bad.”

 

“412 will grab it.”

 

“They’re too far out. Dispatch doesn’t think they’ll make it.” He raises the radio in his hand.

 

“What’s the call?”

 

“Domestic dispute. A gun went off. Police is enroute, but they need medical assistance.”

 

Lexa launches up, her alarm now matching Lincoln’s. “We’ll take the truck. Where is it?”

 

“1123 South Richmond,” he says in between relaying to dispatch that 433 will respond. “It’s a GSW, Lex. We need Chavez.”  Chavez, their only firefighter with surgical experience, had joined them three years ago after quitting his residency at a hospital in New York after losing his sister to cancer. He'd proved to be an invaluable member of their team on high risk calls, and Lexa had great respect for him.  

 

“He’s too far out. I’ll do it,” Lexa says quickly, jogging down the hall.

 

“You’re not a surgeon, ma’am.”

 

“I know my way around a GSW.”

 

“But you could get sued--”

 

“Lincoln, I’ll deal with it later!” She stops at the interior door to the garage. “Is Thomas here?”

 

“I think he’s upstairs.”

 

“Get him down here. He’s in charge ‘til we’re back.”

 

She runs to the auxiliary truck and throws open the back door, leaning in to look at the supplies. She finds the red paramedic bag and unzips it, looking for the pressure bandages. Furious that she finds only a few measly packages, she flings herself out of the truck, and runs to a supply locker on the wall. “I’m going to fucking run their asses into the ground,” she growls, thinking of the rookies she’d recently taken on and tasked with keeping their gear supplied. She grabs a box of the bandages and shoves the entire thing into the red bag when she returns to the truck. By the time she gets into the driver’s seat and starts up the engine, Lincoln is launching himself into the passenger seat.  

 

“An ambo is on route from Mercy, but they’re ten out.”

 

“We’ll be there in five.”

 

 

The next twenty minutes went by in a blur. The assailant was gone by the time they’d arrived. A young woman was in the kitchen, moaning, while her sister stood in the corner, screaming. It was only Lexa’s former paramedic training that had kept the situation from imploding. The woman was in bad shape, loosing blood much too quickly. Lexa was covered in it by the time the ambulance had arrived. She and Lincoln had let them take it from there on out, but long after they’d left the scene, Lexa couldn’t shake it. She’d never been great at compartmentalizing--always caring too deeply for everyone she encountered--but this was different. Those screams, and all that blood...it took her back to moments she never wanted to remember.

 

The chief is waiting for her when they return, but he assures her that, as far as the city is concerned, she acted well within regulation. The paperwork is just a formality. She writes down her statement and signs it without fuss, only nodding when he tells her a union rep would be in touch should a malpractice enquiry arise. She’s too tired to ask any questions, and shakes the chief’s hand with a somber, forced smile when he leaves.

 

She can tell her silence worries the crew as she walks through the station to the showers, but the adrenaline had gone, leaving her exhausted and shaky. She accepts a few pats on the back, smiling when she can muster it, but the dried blood covering her skin and clothes itches, and it’s all Lexa can do not to slide down the wall and let the awfulness of what she’d just seen plunge her into an old, dark place.

 

 


	7. Memorial Day: Part Two

Sore and bone tired, Lexa has her head down on her desk when the tentative knock on her door frame comes. It takes everything in her not to snap at the intrusion. She can feel herself spiraling--her hands shake, her mind races, her chest feels so tight she has to keep rubbing at it with her fist every minute for fear of it exploding. 

 

With measured control, she looks up, meeting Roan’s concerned gaze. “What’s up?” She asks, her tone a practiced calm. 

 

“Just wanted to check in. I heard about the call.” 

  
She waves him off. “All good.” 

 

“Lexa.” Roan’s tone is stern and knowing. They’ve known each other too long, have been through too much together, to bother trying to get anything past the other. Lexa tries anyways. It’s not personal, it’s survival. 

 

“I’m good, Roan. Just tired.” 

 

He crosses to her and invites himself down into the chair opposite her desk, his ankle crossing at the knee and his hands stretching back behind his head. “It’s May.” 

  
She nods. 

 

“You sleeping?” 

 

“Yeah. Fine.” 

 

“Lexa Woods, I’ve known you since you were a teenager. Don’t you dare lie to me.” 

 

“I’m sleeping, Roan. Alright? May sucks. It always does. This isn’t anything new. We do our jobs, we keep our heads down. We get through it.” 

 

Roan studies her, examines the taught pull of her tense muscles, the bunch in her jaw, and the white of her knuckles. He knows when to press, and now is not the time, not with her tiptoeing over the edge of an all too familiar precipice. Reluctantly, he drops his hands to the arms of the chair and nods. 

 

“Okay,” he says on a long exhale. “You’ll let me know if you need anything?” 

 

Relieved at his acquiescence, Lexa nods, her hands unfisting. “Sure.”

 

“Let’s grab drinks after work, if you’re not too tired. You need something to take your mind off.” 

 

Lexa stares at him in thought for a moment before the slightest grin flickers across her features. 

  
“I have a better idea.” 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a miracle that everything comes together on time. Clarke is surprised, almost shocked, by how good it all looks in the end. She hadn’t really had the time since moving to appreciate her backyard for what it is, but it had dressed up quite nicely for their little shindig. 

 

There is still a little light left in the day, but the fairly lights strung across the patio and along the hedges glow a warm, yellow light. The grill is fried up, and the bugs have blessedly made themselves scarce, not a fly in sight around the plates of burgers and hot dog toppings covering the picnic tables set off to the side. Not thirty minutes in, Clarke’s yard is full of conversation and laughter, the volleyball net thoroughly enjoyed, balls of all shapes and sizes and children to match go skidding across the grass and through the legs of the chatting adults.  It’s beautiful.

Octavia wanders over and steps into place beside Clarke, leaning against the table with her and surveying the brimming backyard. 

 

“You good?”

 

Clarke’s eyes linger on Ellie rolling around in the grass with the other children before looking over to her, an understated smile on her face. “Yeah,” she says quietly, almost like she can’t believe it. “I knew tonight would be a little hard. But I’m...I’m actually okay.” 

 

“You seem surprised by that,” Octavia says with a chuckle. 

 

“I guess I am a little bit.” 

 

“Really?” 

 

Clarke grabs her cold glass of lemonade off the table and brings it up to her chest. She watches the condensation droplets run themselves off the glass and onto her hands, thinking through her past seven months here and her life before that.

 

“It’s just been a long three years.” 

 

Octavia nods, leaning closer so that their shoulders brushed. 

 

“I don’t think I realized just how bad things had gotten until I moved home. I moved back, and it’s like I finally realized that this is what being able to breathe is supposed to feel like.” 

 

She takes a sip from her glass, smiles at how good her mother’s lemonade recipe still is, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. After a moment of thought, she stares into her glass, absentmindedly swirling the liquid around along with her thoughts. “It’s like I didn’t even know I was suffocating until I came home. And now that I can breathe...I don’t know. I’m just still getting used to things.”  

 

“Babe--” Octavia’s voice is tight. In less than a beat, Clarke has their fingers intertwined, staving off the arrival of Octavia’s guilt as best she can. Their reunion seven months ago had been awkward after so long apart. Clarke had lost touch with her childhood best friend three years into her move to New York City for college. Her class schedule was grueling, she was partying a little too hard, sleeping with far too many people on a journey to learn herself.

 

There had been little time for back-home friends, and one day Octavia had forgotten to text, and Clarke forgot to reach out. Raven’s introduction into Clarke’s life had certainly not helped. Raven had been by Clarke’s side through the worst times of her life. Octavia hadn’t even known what was happening. 

 

When finally they did talk again, it was with Octavia by Clarke’s hospital bedside, tears in her eyes, apologizing for not having seen what was going on, for not being able to prevent the cut lip and the dark bruise blossoming over Clarke’s right eye, for forgetting to text and losing five years of their friendship. Octavia had spent three weeks with Clarke after that, reconnecting, getting to know Raven, and all of them running around the city acting like silly tourists together as Clarke grew bigger with Ellie. After Octavia had left, it had taken another two years to come home.  Octavia of course had visited a month later when Ellie was born, and again for her first birthday, but it wasn’t until Clarke moved back home that they really had a chance to start again. They’d been working their way back to best friends ever since, and not without some obstacles. 

 

“It’s okay,” Clarke assures, resting her head on Octavia’s shoulder.  “We’re okay.” 

 

“I know,” Octavia says, high pitched and clipped, and Clarke smiles at the telltale signs of her best friend trying to keep her emotions at bay. 

 

“I’m happy, O.” Clarke says after a moment. “You’re a big part of that.” 

 

“You don’t have to say that.” 

 

“I know I don’t. But I want to, because it’s true. Coming home saved my life, and you’re home. You, my mom, the hospital, the neighborhood we grew up in, the parks we had our first kisses in--it’s home, and there was a time when I wondered if I’d ever have that again.” 

 

“Home will always be here for you, CG. You know that.” 

 

Clarke hums with a smile on her face. “You know it’s my mom who first told me I should come back, but it was you who convinced me. You telling me about how the town had changed and how it stayed the same. The new pub opening up near Sal’s and Sal working herself into a fit about it only to fall in love with the new owner.” She laughs at the memory. They both do.

 

“You made me remember what it was like to have a life. You made me want to come home. You saved our lives, O.”

 

“Don’t be gross,” Octavia scoffs with a wet chuckle. Clarke laughs and wraps her arms around her friend, squeezing her close. 

 

“I don’t know we’d do without you.” 

 

“You’d do alright.” 

 

“I didn’t have you in my life once. That decidedly did not turn out well.” 

 

“A stroke of really shitty luck.” 

 

“So maybe you’re my good luck charm.” 

 

Octavia rolls her eyes but grins when Clarke plants a wet kiss to her cheek. Octavia mouths “help me” to Raven as the third of their trio saunters over with a matching grin. 

 

“What are you two kids up to?” 

 

“Just professing my undying love for Octavia, here.” 

 

Octavia, still squished between Clarke’s hands and her face, glares at Raven. “You gonna help me out here, or?” 

 

“Oh, I think you look pretty comfortable,” Raven teases as she grabs a slice of cheese and pops it into her mouth.  

 

Clarke plants another kiss on Octavia’s cheek before letting her go, and the three of them stand side by side. They’re there, observing and laughing and recounting together for all of ten minutes before a blaring siren cuts through the activity buzzing around the yard, and sends everyone into a confused alertness. 

 

Clarke crosses to the side gate and peers over the fence, struck by a flurry of emotions at the sight of the familiar fire truck grumbling into her driveway. Before she can decide how she feels about it, Raven is squeezing in beside her, excitedly clambering through the gate to greet the new visitors. 

 

“Raven, stop!” Clarke calls out, but Raven disappears around the front of the house before Clarke has even made it through the gate. 

 

Clarke, for a reason she can’t quite put her finger on, stalls at the side of the house for a moment, collecting herself. Lexa’s surprise visits were nothing new, and she had seen the firefighter just earlier that day, yet there was something restless inside Clarke all of the sudden at the thought of Lexa being at her home.  Perhaps it was her earlier conversation with Octavia that has her feeling emotionally taxed. Or maybe it’s all the memories of her father lingering around her backyard that leaves her feeling exposed and vulnerable.

 

“CG! Your firefighter’s here!” 

 

Clarke’s cheeks burn at Raven’s proclamation, and she has no choice but to continue on her way to the front of the house and show herself. Sure enough, as she rounds the corner, Lexa is standing in her driveway, flanked by the usual suspects. Roan and the other familiar face look more relaxed than they normally do, perhaps finally having given up on frustration, and given in to resigned amusement. When they see Clarke come around the house, they greet her with waves and retreat back to the truck to lean their enormous bodies against the various foot holds and concaves of the truck. 

 

Lexa, for her part, is smiling as usual, but Clarke can’t help but notice something different about her. She can’t quite name it until she steps up beside Raven and realizes, Lexa is clean. Her hair, normally wavy with sweat and humidity is soft and smooth, pulled back in it’s ponytail. Her skin, normally patched with dirt and soot, is clear and paler than Clarke would have thought. She’s beautiful, and excruciatingly exhausted. Clarke has the sudden, overwhelming urge to touch her, to soothe whatever it is swirling in those dark eyes. It takes enormous reserves of energy to keep her hands by her sides. 

 

“Took your time, CG,” Raven says with an evil glean to her eyes. “Lexa here was just telling me show grew up in Brooklyn.” 

 

“Oh Jesus, Raven. Please tell me you didn’t grill her.” 

 

“I only wanted to know where she’s from!” 

 

“And that’s all you get to know,” Clarke snaps, tugging Raven away. “Go see what my baby is up to.” 

 

“She’s fine, she’s with O,” Raven says, mischievously standing her ground. 

 

Ignoring her, she turns to Lexa, flushing immediately at their eye contact.  “Hi,” she says quietly, taking in the new uniform. This one seems more formal than the one she’d seen at the hospital. Instead of the navy polo with the patch on the sleeve, this one is made of some kind of crisp polyester blend, buttons down the front, and has pockets over the breasts. It is slightly more fitted than the polo Clarke had gotten used to seeing, and she tries not to pay attention to how incredible Lexa’s well-developed shoulders look in it. 

 

“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” Lexa says, that amused grin turning into a soft smile upon seeing Clarke’s embarrassed flush. “We got off a little early.”  

 

“Intrusion? Are you kidding? We’ve been waiting for you,” Raven cuts in before Clarke can answer. Clarke’s eyes widen as she turns to her best friend, determined to catch her eye and ask her, with one look, what the hell she’s trying to pull. Raven, of course, refuses to look at her. 

 

“We’ve got more than enough food. Right, Clarke?” 

 

Clarke’s head whips back to Lexa and finds herself almost at a loss for words.  “Of course,” she finally manages to get out. “Lots of food. If you’re hungry.” 

 

“C’mon Brooklyn, it’ll be fun,” Raven goads. “You hungry?”

 

“Jesus, Raven,” Clarke hisses. 

  
  


“She didn’t eat lunch,” Roan calls out and Clarke does not miss the grin he shares with Raven. That’s a dynamic she decidedly is not going to like. 

 

“Perfect!” Raven slaps her hand on Lexa’s back, not so subtly pushing the firefighter forward. “This is gonna be fun, Brooklyn. Trust me.” She turns to Lexa’s crew, lingering by the truck. “Well don’t just stand there.” 

 

Roan pushes off the truck, but doesn’t move any further. “Boss?” But he’s not looking at Lexa when he says it. He stares at Clarke, waiting for her call. 

 

“Oh, of course. Please.” She nods to the side of the house, ducking her eyes when Lexa catches her gaze with a small smile. 

 

“I’m sorry about the siren,” Lexa murmurs as Clarke leads them back to the yard. “It was Roan’s idea. He has a flare for the dramatics. He thought Ellie might like it.” 

 

Clarke laughs, shaking her head. “It’s alright.”

  
  


Her backyard is exactly the same when Clarke returns, but somehow, with the added guests (one in particular), the crowd is suddenly overwhelming and a little stuffy. In reality, Lexa and her crew hardly make a difference in the large space, but Clarke feels Lexa’s presence everywhere. It only takes minutes for her to weave herself into the fabric of Clarke’s life--she chats with Clarke’s father’s former platoon and Army buddies, charms her way through Clarke’s work colleagues, and all the while, Ellie is glued to her side. 

 

“She’s cute.” 

 

Clarke jumps at Octavia’s sudden presence over her shoulder. She nods with her arms crossed. There’s no use lying at this point. Her friends know her better than anyone, and she’d just stick out like a flashing alarm if she tried to disagree. But Lexa’s attractiveness was never the thing in question. 

 

“I can’t,” she says quietly. 

 

Octavia leans her chin on Clarke’s shoulder. “Can’t want?” 

 

Clarke shrugs, then shakes her head. “I don’t want...I don’t have time for...that. Not right now. I worked nearly 80 hours last week. Ellie saw more of her grandmother than her own mom, and I’m not okay with that. I just...don’t have room for anything else.” 

 

Octavia nods, her chin still resting on Clarke’s shoulder. “Okay,” she says simply. 

 

“You’re not going to fight me on that?” 

 

Octavia snakes her arms around Clarke’s waist and gives her a gentle squeeze. “I trust you. You’ll figure out what’s best for you. You always do.” 

 

Clarke turns to look at her as best she can. “Did you get into the liquor?” 

 

“Ha ha. I’ve just been thinking about our chat and it reminded me of everything you’ve been through the past few years. I don’t think I could’ve done it, and it just made me realize how...grown up you are. While I was fucking around in college, you were raising an infant, on your own. I think we owe it to you to let you figure this one out in your own time.” 

 

Clarke considers Octavia’s words, then smiles, still a little perplexed, and nods. “Did you talk to Raven?” 

 

“Yup.” 

 

“And?” 

 

“She’s not delighted about it. She’s ready to plan your wedding. But she’ll come around. She just wants you to be happy.”

 

A familiar squeal yanks their attention to the middle of the backyard where they find Ellie, hanging upside down off of Lexa’s shoulder. Lexa has a sure grip on one of the toddler’s legs as she chuckles briefly, but otherwise continues her conversation with Charlene, a fellow peds nurse from Clarke’s work. Clarke watches the way Charlene laughs at whatever it is Lexa is saying, the way her reaches out and grips Lexa’s forearm for a second. Something inside her bristles, but she forces it away, and instead watches her daughter squirm about.

  
Ellie’s little hands grip at Lexa’s shirt, tugging it up as she wriggles around in constant motion.  A hip bone and the hint of a strong, well-formed oblique is exposed, and Clarke jerks her eyes away, feeling her cheeks burn at the unintentional gluttony of her gaze. She watches as Lexa just smiles, reaches behind her and swings Ellie around so that she’s right side up and tucked onto her hip, reigned in once again. 

 

“Ellie seems to like her.” 

 

Clarke nods, arms crossed again, a disconcerting, unstable feeling blooming in her chest. “Loves her,” she admits, watching the two of them continue their little dance until finally Ellie makes it up to Lexa’s shoulders, perched with her hands on Lexa’s head.

 

“You see the tall guy just behind her?” 

 

Clarke peers around the pair and lands on the handsome, familiar face that is almost always by Lexa’s side, opposite of Roan. She nods and leans into Octavia as her friend smiles. 

 

“His name’s Lincoln. We’re gonna get drinks after the parade tomorrow.” 

 

Clarke’s brow arches. “Oh yeah?” 

 

“He works with Lexa. He’s a lieutenant.” 

 

“Sexy,” Clarke teases and laughs when Octavia punches her gently on the shoulder. 

 

“I’m just giving you context.” 

 

“I know who he is.” 

 

“You do?” 

 

“He shows up every time Lexa does. They must work the same shifts.” 

 

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you had actual sex on a stick showing up to your house every week? What kind of friend are you?” 

 

Clarke barks out a laugh and gestures towards Lexa and Ellie. “I’m sorry, I was a little distracted,” she says in faux indignation. 

 

“Well, that’s fair. God, who knew people in this town were so hot.”

 

“I’d like to know where they were hiding when we were in high school.” 

 

“New York,” Raven says from behind them, sucking on a popsicle. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Rae apparently got Lexa’s life story.” 

 

“Uh, correction. I only got the one answer, thanks to you.” 

 

“Raven,” Octavia groans. “What’d I say about laying off?” 

 

“This was before that!”

 

“Sure, sure.” 

 

“It was!” 

 

“To be fair, it was,” Clarke says, backing Raven up, despite her friend decidedly not deserving it. 

“Octavia has drinks set up with Tall, Dark and Steamy.” 

 

“Also known as Lincoln,” Raven says between sucks of her popsicle.

 

“You grill him too?”

 

“Of course I did.” 

 

“Raven,” Clarke says with a grin, shaking her head. 

 

“Well it’s not like you two do any kind of vetting. I swear, they could be axe murderers and you’d never know til you were dead in your bed.” 

 

“That’s great, Rae. Real nice.” 

 

“I’m just saying. A little vetting never hurt anyone.” 

 

“At least tell me what you learned,” Octavia cuts in.

 

“Not much,” Raven says and shoots a glare at Clarke. It goes ignored and she continues, “Hottie McHottstuff, aka Lexa, was born and raised in Brooklyn. That’s all I got from her. Tall, Dark and Steamy, that’d be Lincoln, was raised in Long Island, then moved to Maryland for college, and back to New England for work.”

 

“I can’t believe you did that,” Octavia sighs, groaning at her friend’s complete lack of discretion.

 

Clarke laughs, but her attention drifts back to Lexa and Ellie. She falters when she sees their new set-up. Having apparently tired out, Ellie is back in Lexa’s arms, her head tucked into the crook of Lexa’s neck. Lexa sways ever so slightly as she chats with a man Clarke doesn’t recognize. He’s probably someone’s plus one, she supposes, as she continues to eye them closely. 

 

When she catches herself starting to comfort at the two of them together, she jerks herself out of it. Her throat goes dry and her heart thumps strangely in her chest. Her gaze jumps from the two of them to her father’s friends milling about the grill. Her mother, having recently arrived, drinks a margarita, her one and only of the year, always reserved for this weekend. The American flag banners on the fence flap in the breeze, and suddenly the yard starts to feel too small. When Lexa catches her eye and smiles, Clarke’s stomach swirls and threatens to send her dinner rushing back up.

 

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” she says quickly to Raven and Octavia. Without waiting for a response, she rushes across the yard, ignoring the way Lexa frowns and watches her go.

 

She’s oppressively hot by the time she bursts through the back doors and into the kitchen. Half out of her mind, half not caring who might walk in, she flings open her fridge door and sticks herself in front of it, hiking up her shirt. She knows what a panic attack feels like by now, but what spurred it on exactly she doesn’t want to think about. She lets herself breathe for moment, closing her eyes until her heart rate slows. 

 

“Hey, whoa.” Raven quietly slips into the kitchen and finds Clarke with her forehead pressed to the fridge, eyes close.“You okay?”

 

When Clarke doesn’t answer, Raven combs her fingers through Clarke’s blonde, wavy hair. “Your dad?”

 

Clarke nods, but she doesn’t move away from the door. “You’ve been through the worst of it,” Raven murmurs and Clarke nods again. “This is the easy part,” she soothes, her voice taking on the calm, reassuring tone of the mantra they’d spoken together for years.

 

“It still hurts,” Clarke whispers. “He should be here. He should see Ellie. How happy she is.”

 

Raven nods and rubs Clarke’s back. “What do you need?”

 

Clarke swallows hard. “I think I just need a second.” 

 

“Okay,” Raven kisses the side of her head. “I’m right outside if you need me.” 

 

When the doors clicks shut, Clarke turns to the sink with a shuddering breath. There are only a few dishes there, but she starts in on them anyways, needing to keep busy. The ache of her father’s absence radiates through her chest. She’d spent all day running around, too busy to slow down and think about the implications of today. With nothing but the quiet kitchen for company, everything she’d fought so hard to keep down rises to the surface. 

 

The Griffin Memorial Day barbeque had been a tradition for as long as Clarke could recall. It had been a day for remembering those lost in service, but mostly it was a day to spend time with family and to rejoice in the loved ones they did have. There was always a tinge of sadness, especially for her father who had lost friends at war, but generally it was a happy, raucous occasion. Her aunts and uncles, cousins, other relatives, neighbors and school friends would collect in the Griffins’ glorious backyard. There was swimming, music, and good food. Best of all, there was her father, always near, always smiling. He was Clarke’s best friend, her dearest ally. 

 

Abby worked long hours throughout Clarke’s childhood. They had been close, but there had always been a slight unfamiliarity between the two due to the long hours spent apart day in and day out. But Jake had always been there, with the exception of his Army tours. Jake, with his sweet, blue eyes and sandy blonde stubble that made Clarke giggle when he kissed her cheek. He had been Clarke’s entire world. Memorial Day was never supposed to exist for him. Clarke spent the first sixteen years of her life holding her breath, waiting for the day the Army showed up at their front door with solemn faces and words that would alter their lives forever. But the Army never came. They had gotten lucky, and on Clarke’s sixteenth birthday, Jake had brought her breakfast in bed, kissed her cheek and told her he was retiring as an Army engineer, and was never going to leave her again. 

 

He never should have been sent back.

 

Clarke stares at the black, ceramic coffee thermos sitting by the faucet. Picking it up, she runs her fingers over the large dent at the bottom of it, her vision blurring with the tears.

 

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  


2014 | New York City

 

For once in her medical school career, Clarke is glad to be stuck in the hospital later than usual. This December had been harsher than the last few, and Clarke--though born and raised in New England--finds herself entirely unable to acclimate to the constant barrage of sleet and howling wind.  Even in the hallway, far from the storm, Clarke feels the chill. She pulls her white student coat together in the front and hugs her thermos, an old scratched up thing stolen from her dad’s desk years ago because it reminded her of him when he was away. 

 

Despite her incredibly long day, Clarke is chipper. Christmas, her favorite holiday is around the corner, she’d watched an amazing cardiomyoplasty from the gallery, out-diagnosed an attending on a puzzling case of a sixteen year old presenting with abdominal pain, and fielded a preliminary phone interview with the director of a residency program she desperately wanted to get into. Riding high on her accomplishments, Clarke smiles at all the night nurses, and even stops to help an orderly track down a missing chart before making her way to the physical therapy wing. 

 

She beams when she turns the corner and sees Raven through the glass window that looks into the rahab room. Stubborn as usual, the Airman swats at an aid, obviously grumbling to herself when she goes to adjust the brace, keeping the aid at a distance with a daring glare. Clarke laughs and shakes her head when Raven catches the foot massage ball the aid tosses to her and throws it back, clearly not interested in that particular exercise.

 

She’s about to cross the hall and open the door, valiantly rescuing the aid from Raven’s shenanigans, when her phone rings. Normally, she might just ignore it, but when she sees it’s her mother calling, Clarke stalls with a frown. Abby had the morning shift at her own hospital this morning. They’d talked just that afternoon and Clarke could hear the exhaustion tugging at her mother’s every word. At nine o’clock at night, Abby should have been sleeping. The unexpected call makes Clarke’s stomach flip. 

 

It’s almost as if she’d already known. She doesn’t hear much. It only takes three sentences. 

 

_ “Clarke, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident. Your father...he’s gone, baby.” _

 

She doesn’t remember dropping the thermos or falling to her knees. She only notices when Raven comes limping up to her in a rush and nearly slips in the puddle of coffee on the tile. She can’t hear anything, but she can feel Raven’s hands skirting over every piece of her body as if that might quell the sobbs ripping out of her chest. In moments, she’s surrounded by nurses who think she has had some medical emergency, but they’re brushed off by Raven who pulls Clarke into her lap and rocks her back and forth for what has to be close to half an hour.  

 

“This is the worst of it,” Raven whispers, kissing Clarke’s temple. “Okay? You just have to hold on, Clarke. I promise it only gets easier from here.” 

 

“My thermos,” Clarke sobs, pressing up from Raven in a panic. Raven soothes her back down and grabs the empty, now dented thermos from beside her and hands it to Clarke. She gives Clarke another kiss to the temple and hushes her gently, rocking again when Clarke lets out a pained gasp through her tears. 

 

“This is the worst part,” Raven murmurs again. “With time, this pain you don’t know how to possibly live through, it’ll get better. And then dealing with this...one day it will be easy compared to this.” 

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  


Polis | 2017

 

Clarke gently grabs the thermos from the sink and cradles it in her hands. She stares at it, letting the long-suppressed emotions well up. Grief turning into anger, she turns to the dishes in the sink, scrubbing under scalding water until her hands feel raw.  She dries a bowl and bends down to the cabinets, her mind alight with raging thoughts. How could she be so careless and reckless with her emotions? How could she have thought inviting Lexa over to a thing like this would be a good idea? There is a reason her mother hadn’t wanted to organize this barbeque after Jake. It’s too hard, and Clarke had been a fool to think she’d come out of it unscathed. 

 

“Ridiculous,” she growls and hurls the cabinet door open. It cracks loudly against its neighboring cabinet, and when it swings back around, it hangs at an odd angle. Clarke groans and leans in for a closer look, her blood boiling and her eyes watering at the sight of the screws ripped clean out of the wood. 

 

“You’ve got to be fucking--” she huffs out, a whimper wobbling in her voice. She slams the door back closed, but it just sadly swings back open again at its awkward angle. Feeling sorry for herself, she dejectedly shoves the bowl into its place on the shelf and sinks to the floor. 

 

She nearly jumps out of her skin at Lexa’s soft, “Clarke?” 

 

In her scare, Clarke wacks her wrist on the cabinet and hisses in pain as she both tries to shake the sharp sting away and scramble herself off the floor. If she weren’t currently so angry at the world, she might smile at the way Lexa rushes towards her, then stops herself as if seeming to remember Clarke’s reluctance to let her in. If she weren’t so angry, she might liken Lexa to an adorable, awkward puppy the way she watches Clarke with earnest eyes, charged to the brim with the desire to help, but wanting more to please by staying put and keeping her distance. 

 

“I’m sorry, I was just looking for the restroom,” Lexa says at last, and Clarke watches the way her eyes jump back and forth from her to the broken cabinet door.  “Are you okay?” 

 

“I...yes” Clarke sighs, dropping her wrist. “I just can’t catch a fucking break it seems. Excuse my language.” 

 

Lexa steps forward, obviously spurred by the distress in Clarke’s voice, and this time, Clarke does smile, ever so slightly.

 

“How can I help?” 

 

“You don’t have to run to my aid every time something goes wrong, Lexa.” 

 

“I know, but if I can help…” Lexa glances again at the door hanging off its hinge. She looks at Clarke, hesitant. 

 

“Don’t,” Clarke says with a smile, almost chuckling at the guilty smile Lexa returns. 

  
“It’s a quick fix.” 

 

“Lexa--” 

 

“If you really don’t want the help, I’ll respect that, Clarke. But really...it’s a quick fix.” 

  
  


A drill, screwdriver and two minutes later, Lexa is on her kitchen floor, nearly lying on her back, but balancing on her rear end to get the angle needed to re-screw the hinges back into place. Clarke watches on from her place leaning against the counter. She tries not to oggle, but she’d been right when talking to Raven and Octavia--Lexa is objectively attractive--and she finds herself staring for a moment at the flexing arms, strong core, and shapely legs all working together to keep Lexa upright in her strange position on the floor.

 

But the evening all comes rushing back to her in the next moment--her trip down memory lane with Octavia, thoughts of her father present and raw, Ellie far too comfortable in Lexa’s arms. And now, with Lexa--sweet, gentle Lexa--on her floor fixing something Clarke had broken in a fit of childish frustration, it all becomes just a little too much. Feeling embarrassed and needing a moment to just wallow, Clarke pushes off the counter, her eyes a blink away from spilling over. 

 

“Lexa, it’s really okay,” she says, her voice tight. She watches Lexa’s brow furrow and her tongue poke out between her lips in concentration. “I can figure it out later.” 

 

“Almost there,” is all Lexa says. “Screw’s a bit stripped.” 

 

“If it’s not easy--” 

 

“Just need to--” Lexa throws her shoulder behind the drill until the stubborn screws spins into place and the door goes level again. “There!” Lexa huffs out a breath from the exertion, pleased with herself when she tugs downwards on the door and it doesn’t budge. “All done,” she says, looking up at Clarke with a grin. 

 

Clarke’s reluctant smile immediately falls from her face when Lexa shifts and she catches sight of the gauze on Lexa’s neck. “You’re bleeding,” she gasps and beckons Lexa off the floor. 

 

Lexa brings her hand to her neck, inspecting the gauze with the pads of her fingers, frowning slightly when she pulls the fingers away and sees that Clarke is right. “It’s okay,” she says, trying to placate Clarke’s worry. 

 

“You busted a stitch, maybe more. Come here, let me see.” 

 

“Clarke--” 

 

“Please? Just let me look.” 

 

Lexa wanders over obediently and stands in front of the nurse. Her eyes flutter at the feeling of Clarke’s fingers on her jawline, lifting her chin for a better look. 

 

“You’re too tall, I can’t see get a good look. Let me get a chair.” 

 

“It’s really okay, Clarke. Seriously. I’m fine.” 

 

Clarke pins her with a stare, but Lexa doesn’t move out of the way when Clarke goes to step around her. 

 

“Lexa.” 

 

“You have to get around me to get a chair, and I’m telling you it’s okay.” 

 

Clarke glares at her, but Lexa doesn’t budge. Clarke, however, has a two year old that far outmatches any stubborn wiles Lexa might think she has. Clarke knows not only how to pick her battles, but how to win them. She backs away from Lexa, giving herself just enough room to hop and hitch herself up onto the counter so that she’s face to face with the surprised firefighter. 

 

Victorious, but on a mission, Clarke wastes no time on Lexa’s amused surprise. Instead, she crooks her finger, beckoning Lexa forward until Lexa’s stomach is nearly against the edge of the counter. It takes a moment for Clarke to fully realize her mistake. With Lexa close enough for Clarke to see, the firefighter winds up squarely between Clarke’s thighs. The inside tips of Clarke’s knees brush alongside Lexa’s solid hips, and the contact is jolting. Refusing to make a fool of herself any further, Clarke grits her teeth and presses onwards, ignoring the shake in her fingers when she peels back the gauze, then the steri-strips. She hadn’t even realized how still and quiet Lexa had gone until Lexa speaks and it nearly makes her jump. 

 

“So, what’s the prognosis, doc?” Lexa says it with a chuckle, but there’s something raspy to her voice that is entirely new, never before heard in her usually playful, confident tone. 

 

Clarke licks her dry lips. “Your stitches are fine. You just bled through.” 

 

“So, I’ll live?” 

 

Clarke nods, chewing on her lip for a moment. “I should clean it though,” she says before leaning back and looking up. That’s her second mistake. Up close, Clarke can see for the first time the smattering of freckles dusted along Lexa’s cheekbones, the pink tint on each cheek and rising above her nose, indications of a person who spends much of their time outdoors. The line of her jaw is hard, every bone structure prominent on her handsome face. Her eyes are actually a light brown, almost golden in the setting sun, no actual trace of the green she’d thought she’d known. It must have been a trick of the light, and Clarke finds herself mesmerized by the new discovery.  Whereas once Clarke had found Lexa objectively attractive, today--standing here in her kitchen, so close the heat of her solid body is palpable--Clarke finds Lexa to be unequivocally breathtaking.

 

For some ridiculous, nonsensical reason, the realization brings the tears back to Clarke’s eyes, and before she knows it, she’s got her hands on the front of Lexa’s hips, pushing her away. She drops to the floor gracelessly and turns to the sink, wordlessly reaching into the cabinet underneath for a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. She dabs some onto a paper towel and goes to reach for Lexa’s neck, but Lexa gently grabs her wrist and stills it. 

 

“Clarke,” she says softly with understanding eyes.

 

“I’m sorry,” Clarke murmurs, shaking her head. 

 

Lexa lets Clarke’s hand go and finishes the job of dabbing the peroxide on her wound. She then covers it back up with the gauze Clarke had left hanging to the skin of her neck. 

  
“You need new dressings,” Clarke tries to argue, but Lexa ignores her and presses the old tape back down. 

 

“It’ll be fine.” Boldly, Lexa brushes a stand of Clarke’s hair back behind her ear, wiping away tear along with it. To her utter surprise, Clarke leans into the touch ever so slightly. Lexa gives her a small, sad smile, then draws her hand away and leans back against the the island countertop, giving Clarke some space. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

 

Clarke looks up at her, unable to stop the tears now, though they fall silently. She chuckles wetly and quickly swipes at her cheeks. “God, I’m so embarrassed. This is mortifying.” 

 

“Don’t be,” Lexa soothes, her voice calm and low. 

 

“Today is hard for me,” Clarke  admits with a sigh, but offers nothing further, and Lexa doesn’t push. 

 

“I understand.” 

 

“Everyone says it just takes time. That time will make it all better. And it does, for the most part. It takes the edge off, but it never really goes away.” 

 

“No,” Lexa says quietly, “it doesn’t.” 

 

They give each other a sad, knowing smile. Neither know what it is that the other has lost, but that they both share this experience is unmistakable. To those that have lost, the look of it on someone else--settled into the eyes, clinging to bones and tearing at souls--is as familiar as looking into a mirror. 

 

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” Lexa adds, gently. She takes a step forward, opening herself up for whatever Clarke will take. 

 

To both of their surprise, Clarke steps into Lexa’s space and leans against her body for a hug. The first and last time they’d hugged had been at the hospital when Clarke was stricken with fear and panic over the wellbeing of her daughter after the car crash. Lexa’s embrace had been a comfort, but Clarke had been so distracted at the time. 

 

Here in her kitchen, she is completely present to how warm Lexa’s body is. How broad and comforting her chest is. The gentle, but sure strength of her arms. Lexa is solid and unshakable, and Clarke is terrified to find herself wishing she could curl up inside Lexa’s warm, safe presence and never leave. It had been so long since she’d been held like this, if ever. There had been boyfriends and girlfriend before. Too many too count. But none of them had been like this, so gentle and tender. So sensitive and kind and safe. Clarke presses closer to her, comforted for the first time in years.

 

Lexa smells like summer--warm air, cut grass and bonfire--and though she is warm, there is a chill still clinging to her clothes from being out in the setting sun. Clarke nuzzles, just once, revelling in all that is Lexa. She clenches her eyes shut, her face pinching in the beginnings of a silent sob.  When her shoulders shake ever so slightly, Lexa holds her tighter, and for a moment, it’s as if they’d done this a million times. 

 

Lexa says nothing, just continues to gently rub Clarke’s back until Clarke wetly chuckles at herself, and pulls away. “I’m sorry,” she mutters and wipes at her cheeks. She runs the back of her hand across her nose, glancing up at Lexa briefly before looking shyly away again. Lexa just watches her patiently with an impossibly sweet smile that makes Clarke’s heart flutter. 

 

“Don’t apologize,” she says quietly, her hands resting briefly on Clarke’s shoulders before falling away. 

 

Clarke’s stretches out her hand, wanting to touch Lexa one more time, a thank you on the tip of her lips--

 

“Hey, Clarke?” Wells sticks his head in through the door and frowns apologetically for the intrusion. For the briefest of moments he takes stock of Lexa standing so close to Clarke, and the hand Clarke has wrapped gently around Lexa’s wrist. He sizes Lexa up, and Clarke can see that he’s deciding how to feel about this stranger’s presence in his best friend’s life. Clarke can’t blame him, she’s desperately trying to do the same thing. 

 

Clarke drops Lexa’s wrist and looks at him expectantly. “Hey.” She clears her throat, trying to hide the tears. “What’s up?” 

 

“Sorry, I think Ellie’s--” 

 

“Oh, Christ,” Clarke nearly gasps, her hand coming to her forehead. “She must be so tired.” 

 

Wells nods with a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, it’s full on tantrum town.” 

 

“Are you serious?” 

 

“Yeah, we tried to do damage control--Raven said you needed a minute--but I think she’s reached her threshold.” 

 

“Shit,I’ll be right out.” 

 

She turns to Lexa, wanting yet again to touch her. Her fingertips rest gently, almost hovering, on the material over Lexa’s stomach for a second. “Thank you,” she says earnestly, aware that she hasn’t always been as friendly as she could be. Right now though, she wants nothing more than for Lexa to know how much her kindness had just meant. 

 

“Of course,” Lexa says. Her stomach twitches under Clarke’s finger tips, reminding Clarke of what she’s doing. She pulls away, embarrassed, and steps back. When she looks up at Lexa, wanting to know whatever it is she might be thinking, Lexa’s face is entirely unreadable. 

 

Clarke clears her throat. “The bathroom is down the hall, on the right,” she says, remembering Lexa’s initial reason for coming in. Lexa nods with a small smile before she disappears down the hall, and Clarke is left to wonder what in the hell to possibly make of all of that.    
  


 

* * *

 

By the time Lexa returns the truck to the station later that night, changes into her street clothes, and drives the short way home, she is practically dragging herself across the threshold to her apartment. She doesn’t even have the energy to scare when Anya suddenly lifts herself from the couch and greets her. She stops in the hallway, confused, until it dawns on her and she’s flooded with guilt. 

 

“Shit. I’m so sorry. I totally forgot we were doing dinner.” 

 

“Don’t worry about it. You look like a wreck.” Anya waves her off and beckons her to the couch, making room for Lexa to drop down into the cushions. “What happened?” 

 

With her eyes closed, Lexa sinks into the back of the couch and throws her legs onto the coffee table. “Rough day.” 

 

“You get another bad fire? I didn’t hear anything.” 

 

“No. No, I wish it had been. That probably would have been easier.” 

 

“Shit,” Anya murmurs, eying Lexa closely, studying the lack of color in her face and the dark bags under her eyes. “What happened?” 

 

“10-16 call over in Cherry Hills. We were closest.” 

 

“Domestic dispute?” 

  
  


“Yeah,” Lexa says wearily, standing and grabbing a beer from the kitchen before returning. “It was messy, An. There was a gun.” 

 

“What?” Anya bolts up right, her eyes scanning her little sister’s body several times over. “Are you okay? Was it discharged?” 

 

“Hey, it’s fine. I’m fine. The perp was gone before we got there and the police were right behind us.” 

 

“Jesus.” Anya runs a hand through her hair and sits back into the cushions. “Is that where you’ve been?” 

 

“No,” Lexa says, a little sheepish. “Clarke invited me to a BBQ earlier today. After the call, I was so out of whack. I thought it might be nice to just go shoot the breeze for a little while.”

 

“How was it?” 

 

“It was fine.” She smiles briefly. “Ellie was cute.” 

 

“Ellie?” 

 

“Clarke’s daughter.” 

 

Anya nods slowly, not really sure what to make of the information or her sister’s current state. “Well, you look beat.” 

 

“I am. I’m exhausted. I haven’t been off my feet since lunch, and the little one...she’s got more energy in her pinky than I could ever hope to have in my entire body.”

 

“Well, you’ve already been fed, so let’s take a raincheck on dinner and get you in bed.” 

 

“No, no I’m good. Let’s just hangout for a bit.” 

 

Given the fatigue settling across Lexa’s face, Anya wants to object, but she can also see the telltale signs of Lexa having been rattled--an unusual thing from her little sister, the most steadfast, unshakable person she knows.  “You okay?” She asks, gently. 

 

“Yes,” Lexa says immediately, but she knows she’s said it too quickly, giving herself away. 

 

“I won’t push,” Anya says, carefully, “but if you want to talk about it…” 

 

“It was the 10-16.” 

 

Anya nods. She could have guessed as much. “You said it was messy?” 

 

“He shot her point blank in the stomach.”

 

“Damn.” 

 

“She nearly bled out right there on her kitchen floor. I mean, it’s insane. It’s just insane. It was like being--” but she stops, the words caught in her throat. She bites down on her lip and shakes her head, not looking at Anya. “This guy--they caught up to him later--he had priors. A guy with a record gets his hand on a gun and shoots his girlfriend in their kitchen.” Lexa shakes her head. “I don’t get it.”

 

“There are a lot of dumb people in the world,” Anya says with a sigh. 

 

“There was so much blood, An,” Lexa whispers. She stares at her boots, trying not to remember. 

 

“Did it…” Anya starts to ask, but her words trail off. 

 

Lexa knows what she was going to ask though, and she nods. “Yeah,” she says, barely audible. “It took me back.” 

 

Anya drapes her arm across Lexa’s shoulders and pulls her into her side. “You okay?” 

 

Lexa nods against her shoulder, fatigue making her body far too heavy to do anything other than lean into Anya. “We just don’t typically see that much blood.” Lexa shakes her head. “She was covered in it and it was all over the floor. All over me. God, I forgot how itchy blood is.”

 

Anya grimaces, blissfully unaware of the horrors her little sister had seen and experienced in her short lifetime. “Is the girlfriend...is she okay?” 

 

“I think so. She was alive when they put her in the bus.”  Lexa goes quiet and Anya can tell that she’s thinking. She wants to prompt her, wants to know what’s racing through that overactive mind, but she sits there quietly until Lexa has worked through it in her head. Lexa is silent for so long, Anya wonders if she’s fallen asleep. 

 

“Lex?” 

 

An uneasy sigh shutters out of Lexa, making Anya’s insides churn at the feeling of Lexa so unhinged. 

 

“For a moment,” Lexa says quietly, “I forgot where I was. It didn’t just remind me, it actually took me back. I was there. I was looking at them. I was completely transported, Anya. I blinked and it was gone, but if it’d lasted longer...if I’d gotten stuck there…” 

 

“But you didn’t.” 

 

“But if I had, that woman might be dead because I wasn’t there to keep her alive.”

 

“But you  _ didn’t.  _ You were able to snap out of it. You used to not be able to.”

 

“Still.” 

 

“Well, if you’re concerned about it, maybe you should go back to Dr. Harrison. You liked her.” 

 

“Yeah, maybe.” Lexa sits up and drags her hands over her face, trying to rub off the fatigue. It was useless. It had thoroughly seeped into her deepest recesses, and she had no hope but to try to sleep.  

 

“You want me to stay tonight?” 

 

“No, no.” Lexa gives her a weary smile and pats her thigh. “I’m good.” 

 

“You sure?” 

 

“Yeah.” Lexa squeezes the muscle above her sister’s knee and rises, arching her back in a deep stretch. 

 

Anya stands and grabs her bag from the floor. “You have your sleep meds?” 

 

“I don’t think I’ll be needing any help going to sleep tonight,” Lexa says with a laugh. 

 

Anya smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’d long since stopped trying to make her little sister do anything that wasn’t of her own volition, but that didn’t mean she’d ever stopped worrying. For years, Lexa couldn’t sleep without being chalk full of heavy duty sleeping aids. Dr. Harrison, the only therapist Lexa had stuck with for more than a couple of weeks, had put a stop to that a month into their sessions, and Anya was glad for it; she preferred Lexa to be drug free as much as she could be. But the concern for Lexa’s sleep had always lingered. From time to time, Anya saw the dark bags under Lexa’s eyes and the slouch in her shoulders. She knew that sometimes the nightmares and the memories still came, even if Lexa insisted that they were gone. For the past three years, there had been real, genuine improvement, but then there would be steps backwards, like tonight, and Anya could only hope that Lexa would let her, or anyone, in enough to help if it got bad again. They were very close, always had been, but on this particular matter, Lexa was about as sealed up as one could get. 

 

“Anya, I’m fine. Really.” 

 

Anya looks up in surprise, not having realized how long she’d let her mind wander. “Sure,” she says, shaking her head more at herself than her sister. “I know.” 

 

“You still up for manning the booth Monday?” 

 

“Of course. Oh, that reminds me. Cathy called to say she can’t do the nine AM shift, but that Mary Grace is going to swap with her, so we’re all covered.” 

 

“Good. I’ll swing by after the parade to see how things are going.”

 

“I’ll see you there, squirt. You sure you’re good on getting the stuff to the start?” 

 

“Yeah, we’ll take it over on the truck. We have to be there anyways. I’ll make the guys unload it,” she says with a grin.

 

“I still don’t understand why you need it.” 

 

“I’ve told you,” Lexa says with a tired chuckle, “if they can physically see the equipment we need, they’ll be more likely to give.” 

 

“I guess. But you couldn’t do like a stretchy band or something? It has to be the medicine balls and kettlebells?” 

 

“Those are most expensive.” 

 

“Well, let me know if you end up needing help. I begrudgingly offer my services.” 

 

Lexa laughs and walks her to the door, nearly pushing her out into the hallway. 

 

“Get out of here. I need sleep.” 

 

Anya offers a lazy salute then disappears down the hallway, leaving Lexa to her quiet, empty apartment. She locks the door, tosses her empty beer bottle into the recycling bin and shuts off the lights in her wake as she heads to the back of the apartment to her bedroom. 

 

Moving on autopilot, she strips out of her clothes and steps into the bathroom.  She turns on the water, as hot as it will go until the bathroom is filled with steam. She retrieves a small box from underneath her bathroom sink, pulling from it a small aromatherapy shower steamer wrapped in bright purple tinfoil. She’d mastered this technique years ago. Scalding water, Lavender and Eucalyptus, fifteen minutes.  

 

She sits naked on the floor, her back pressed to the door, eyes closed. She counts to ten on an inhale, counts to fifteen on an exhale, then repeats. It’s supposed to clear her mind. Often times, it does, washing away the terrible memories down the train with the sound of the pounding water. Tonight though, her thoughts remain active, but it is not the awful experiences of her past that shroud her mind. Instead, she sees Clarke’s face, her bright, blue eyes and shy smile. Lexa feels her own lips start to turn. She can feel Clarke’s fingers on her jaw, her arms wrapped around her body when they had hugged. God, that hug. From the moment she’d gotten back from that terrible call, she’d been holding herself together by a quickly fraying thread, wondering when it would snap. And then Clarke had hugged her, and it had felt like the safest place in the world. 

 

Lexa wraps her hands around herself, just below her breasts. She clings to the feeling of Clarke’s head on her shoulder, their bodies pressed together, stomachs and thighs touching. Had it been romantic or completely platonic, Lexa didn’t care. She’d just liked having Clarke close. Perhaps she couldn’t have her now in the way that she wanted, maybe not ever, but Clarke’s friendship, Clarke’s essence--the kindness of her soul and the ferocity of her strength--was all Lexa truly craved. Just to be in her life, in some form or another, would be enough. 

 

When her timer goes off, Lexa laboriously pulls herself off the floor, giving her hamstrings a good, long stretch before moving to shut off the water. She brushes her teeth and washes her hands, removes her contacts and stares in the mirror for a moment, trying to recognize herself. It takes a moment, but eventually she nods, satisfied, and shuts off the light. Her sheets are gloriously cool and crisp when she pulls them over her skin still scorching hot from the steam bath, and when she closes her eyes, she is mercifully asleep in minutes.  

  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Memorial Day: Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an intense chapter. Please take note of these trigger warnings: 
> 
> \- Depictions of war  
> \- Graphic depictions of violence  
> \- PTSD trauma
> 
> Having said that, there's also a few other things I want to note. One, I'm sure I've gotten some details wrong. My family is a Marine family, I don't know much about the other branches. Two, I hate war. I hate the death and how awfully it affects our Veterans and their families. I hate the way it's depicted in Hollywood, brown washing the "Middle East" as if it were this one Bad Thing made up of Enemies. I try to stay away from the topic, but I hope in this case, I've done an okay job at keeping things real. Always let me know if there are problems. 
> 
> On a lighter note, here is a link with an example of both "Taps," which are mentioned, and the Armed Forces Medley which has the Army Song. The second link is to the Army Song with lyric. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h51oHMyAZl8
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=30maUSGYPXQ

 

When Clarke awakens to a ribbon of light dancing across her face, nothing is familiar at first. It takes a moment, a long one at that, to place herself in her room and in her bed. She hadn’t expected to fall asleep when she’d put Ellie down for a nap after breakfast, but at some point she must have managed to wriggle herself under the covers and get far too comfortable. The book she’d been reading lies by her side, closed, and Clarke groans internally at having lost her place.  At the sound of distant commotion occurring somewhere in the living room or perhaps kitchen, she bolts upright, concerned that Ellie had somehow managed to let herself out of her room and into some kind of trouble below.

 

Her panic only heightens when she jogs down the hall and finds that Ellie’s door is open and her bed is empty. Taking the stairs two at a time, it’s not until she hears the sound of her mother’s voice, and the smells of a familiar recipe wafting down the hall that her racing heart begins to abate.

 

“There she is.”

 

Abby greets her with a warm smile when Clarke rounds the corner into the kitchen. Clarke barely has time to return the smile before Ellie is spinning around in her high chair and reaching for her. Her squeals fill Clarke with delight, and she is quick to scoop her into her arms, rubbing her cheek against the warm, silken hair of her baby’s head.

 

“Hello, my love,” she coos, swaying gently as she’s rewarded with sloppy,wet kisses pressed to her jaw, and sticky hands curling into the hair at the nape of her neck. “You’re early,” she says to Abby.

 

“No sweetheart, you just overslept.”

 

Clarke’s face turns to consternation as she looks at the clock over the stove. “Goodness, it’s not really already eleven is it? When did you get here?”

 

“About an hour ago. Ellie was just waking up, so I brought her down and got snacks started.”

 

“You could have woken me.” Clarke rounds the kitchen island and grabs a mug from the shelf, Ellie still tucked into her body. Deftly, she pulls the pot of coffee from the maker and pours herself a large cup, desperate for the caffeine.

  
“I could tell you needed your sleep. You were out. Everything okay?”

 

Clarke settles her back against the counter opposite her mother and nods while taking a sip. She hadn’t slept much the night before. Her thoughts had been a storm of swirling emotions and memories that lacked closure. And there had been her dreams. Most disturbing, and most wonderful of all, had been the face that occupied those dreams.

 

Pushing the image of Lexa aside, Clarke sips at her coffee and shrugs.

 

“The girls and I spent all day cleaning yesterday and then I finished up this morning. I’m just tired.”

 

“I’m off today and tomorrow. Why don’t you let me take Ellie tonight so that you can get some good sleep?”

 

Ellie answers for her with a firm shake of her head and a sharp whine, nuzzling herself even closer to her mother. They had seen so little of each other the past week.  She holds Ellie closer, planting a reassuring kiss to the top of her head.

 

“We haven’t seen each other much lately. I think we need some time together. What do you think, little bean?”

 

Ellie nods quietly, her thumb in her mouth, sleep still clinging to her eyes. She’s so calm and still upon waking, so unlike most toddlers Clarke knows. It always takes a couple hours for Ellie to ramp back up, and Clarke cherishes these quiet, warm moments in each other’s arms. She nuzzles into Ellies cheek and kisses her peach fuzz skin, smiling at the baby smell of her.

 

“Well, you let me know if I can help out,” Abby says, smiling fondly at them. “You need your sleep, Clarke.”

 

“We’re alright,” Clarke says softly, sipping once more at her coffee. “We’re just getting the hang of things out here. Aren’t we?” She bounces Ellie once, revelling in the small giggle she gets. “It’s just taking some time to adjust.”

 

“That’s normal.”

 

“It took me over years to feel settled in New York. Once that happens here, if I ever finish unpacking, I think things will slow down.”

 

“You know, I can hire an unpacking company for you. All you have to do is say the word,” Abby says with a challenging glean to her eyes, knowing Clarke would rather keel over than ask for help.

 

“I’ll find the time. I just need a weekend.”

 

“Alright.” Knowing her daughter, and having taken part in this very more times than she could count in the months since Clarke had moved in, she knows by now not to press the issue. “What time does Raven get here? We’ll need to leave for the parade in about an hour.”  


 

“Should be any minute.” Clarke looks to the stove clock. “I need to shower real quick. I’m going to take Ellie. Will you let Raven in if she gets here before I’m back?”

 

“Of course. Go shower, I’ll have lunch done by then.”

 

Clarke presses a kiss to her mother’s cheek. “Thank you,” she sighs, not knowing what she would ever do without her.

 

 

  
Within the hour, Clarke has Ellie dressed in her American flag overalls, their picnic packed, Raven collected, and the four of them head down the street to the town square. The Memorial Day parade is a joyous affair in their small, patriotic town. With nearly every family connected to the military in some way or another, Memorial Day, and Veteran’s Day at that, practically called for a halt of all other activities.

 

It’s a gorgeous day. The air is warm and smells like the ocean, and the sky is a beautiful, uninterrupted vastness of blue. Most of the neighborhood is out, choosing to walk the twenty minutes to the park to line up for the parade, rather than clutter the small area with cars. Clarke is still getting to know everyone, but their faces are familiar and their conversation is pleasant and easy. With each passing block, Ellie’s chatter from the stroller grows more and more incessant and excited until she has the adults around her in fits of laughter at her antics.

 

As they approach, the sidewalks grow nearly impossible to navigate with families already pressed up against the crowd barricades.

 

Abby grasps Clarke’s shoulder. “Sweetheart, I’m going to go talk to Carol and Bob. I’ll find you later.”

 

“Okay. Text if you can’t find us.” Clarke smiles and gives her hand a squeeze before returning her attention to the mass of bodies in front of her.

 

“Octavia’s at the southwest corner,” Raven says above the buzz of the chattering crowd.

 

They weave through legs and around dog leashes until they’re through the bulk of the crowd and into the greenery of the park. In the center of it, a large, raised gazebo houses a formation of chairs set up for the concert band that will play later in the day. Already, people have their blankets placed in front of it, staking their claim for the picnic later. Clarke has no such desire to plan, preferring to let the day go about its merry way with no interference from her. They’d find a spot to eat and enjoy the music when the time came.

 

Octavia greets them with a subdued wave when they finally make it to where she and her partner sit in the open back of their ambulance. Looking exhausted already, Clarke laughs when Octavia sinks into her hug with a grumble. Clarke ruffles her hair when she stands back and turns to Mark for a hug.

 

“Hey buddy,” she sighs, squeezing his giant frame as best she can. “Putting up with her okay?”

 

“She hasn’t stopped complaining since we rolled up,” he chuckles.

 

“Tired already, O?”

 

“Hot,” Octavia moans, bending down to scoop Ellie out of her stroller. “Hey kid.”

 

Ellie squeezes her godmother’s cheeks, giggling in delight at the funny face it creates.

 

“Do you have enough water?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just warm back here. We can’t run the engine.”

 

“No, I imagine not. Don’t want to waste gas. Why don’t you stand out here? The breeze is lovely.”

 

“Legs hurt,” Octavia grumps and Clarke gives up with a laugh.

 

“Hey, dude. You know what that is?” Raven asks, stepping up to bump fists with Octavia. She nods past her towards the entrance of the park. A line of tables sit along the park’s border fence, attracting passerbyers in small groups.

 

“It’s a charity drive, I think. There’s one you might actually be interested in. For veterans with disabilities or something like that.”

 

“Uh huh. I’m gonna go take a look. Want to come?” She turns to Clarke and gets Ellie back in the stroller when Octavia hands her over.

 

“You okay, here?” Clarke asks Octavia.

 

“Yeah, we’re good. I’ll come find you after the parade. We’re on til four.”

  
  


 

The tables at the entrance of the park are all occupied by members of charitable organizations hoping to raise funds for various aspects of veteran needs. It’s the table Raven had seen from across the way that holds her attention, for more reasons than one. At the center of it, sits the attractive fire marshall from the police station, looking as gorgeous as ever. Raven licks her lips, her mouthing going suddenly dry.

 

“It’s you,” is all she manages to say at first, momentarily transfixed by this Anya, with her hair down and her lean, feminine frame hugged by a well-fitted, short-sleeve button up.

 

“Do I know you?” Anya asks, but her tone lacks any venom, just genuine curiosity.

 

Raven’s brows furrow, caught off guard by the question. No, she supposes, Anya wouldn’t know her. The fact that Anya hadn’t left her mind for the past forty-eight hours didn’t mean the fixation was mutual. Raven tries not to let the disappointment show on her face.

 

“Oh wait,” Anya starts, studying her. “You were the one keeping Murphy from getting me my reports on Saturday.”

 

Raven laughs. “I’m not sure that’s how that went, but yes. I was there.”

 

Anya hums. “The way I see it, you were distracting Murphy. Which means you owe me.” She gestures to the items on the table--a kettlebell, medicine ball, grip strengthener, balance board, and several other items of various rehabilitative functions. “Why don’t you pick an item item to buy for our charity and we can call it even?”

 

Raven grins. “Why don’t you tell me about your charity first.”

 

Anya hands her a pamphlet containing pictures of young men and women in a rehabilitation center with paragraphs of information weaved throughout.

 

“Our foundation helps supply injured veterans with free, in-home physical therapy equipment to aid in their rehabilitation while waiting for their disability to kick in, or when the military stops paying for their care. A lot of times, our veterans still have a long way to go in their recovery or need prolonged rehabilitation after the VA moves on. That gets expensive. We aim to provide as many vets as we can with the equipment they need to continue getting better, whether it’s providing them with their own equipment, or even bringing in-home care to them.”

 

“Wow.” Raven lets out an impressed breath. “That’s amazing.”

 

“Yeah, we think so,” Anya says with a smile, seemingly oblivious to Raven’s emotional reaction.

 

“You could have really used that five years ago, huh?” Clarke says, leaning into her friend’s side.

 

“Are you a vet?” Anya asks, perking up.

 

“First lieutenant, US Air Force,” Raven states like with a proud grin.

 

“And you?” Anya asks, turning to Clarke.

 

Clarke shakes her head, as if apologizing. “Just a brat.”

 

“What branch?”

 

“Army.”

 

Anya smiles. “The best branch.”

 

“Hey now,” Raven growls good naturedly. “So, how can I help? Seeing as how I owe you and everything…”

 

Anga bites back a grin, intrigued by this girl with face of a supermodel and the body of an intense athlete. “You can donate an amount of your choice, or you can buy actual items through this catalogue. You can also drop off any old exercise equipment you may have that you don’t use anymore.”

 

“Great.” Raven pulls out her wallet. “I’m glad you guys are doing this.”

 

Anya nods succinctly, but Clarke can see the way her cheeks flush ever so slightly, even if Raven seems to miss it.

 

“You should chat with my sister. She’s the one that started this. We call it our silver lining.”

 

“Silver lining? Clarke asks, kindly filling in when Raven is too busy browsing the catalogue to respond. She watches Anya study Raven for a moment, her deep brown eyes perusing what had to be every inch of Raven’s body. Clarke bites back a smile, happy for the two of them and their budding flirtations. It’d been so long since she’d seen Raven do anything for herself. When Anya peels her gaze away, she shrugs.

 

“This is the good thing that came out of some really, really bad things. My little sister has been through a lot since her medical retirement. She spent a year in the hospital, and when she got back on her feet, this is what she turned her focus to. That and cars,” Anya adds with a laugh. She shrugs again. “It’s our silver lining for having to deal with what she went through. I think it helps her just as much as it helps others.”

 

“I can only imagine,” Clarke says, a mixture of understanding and awe.

 

“She’s in the parade, but she’ll be here later. You guys should swing by. I’ll introduce you.”

 

“We’d like that. I’m sure she’s amazing.”

 

 

 

Lexa is like iron under Roan’s hands as he helps her pin her medals to her uniform and straighten out the ribbons over her chest.

 

“You put me to shame, kid,” he murmurs, taking in the unusually large number of awards for someone her age.

 

“Shut up, you saved my life,” she snaps under her breath. Refusing to look at him, she fiddles with the buttons on her uniform and tugs at the fabric, willing it to lie straighter than it already was.

 

“Lexa,” Roan says, stilling her hand with his. “Just breathe.”

 

He jaw bulges under the force of her teeth trying to stamp out the overwhelming discomfort rolling in nauseating waves through her. “I can’t stand wearing this,” she mutters, her voice raw and thin. Admitting that to him feels like a betrayal of their history together, but she knows that this is not news to him. They had always been close, though the transition of their power dynamic had strained things at times, though never from him. While Roan was happy to follow her orders after joining her station, she could never truly see him as her subordinate, not when it had once the other way around. She had struggled with the change for a years, but eventually she learned to let go speak her mind.

 

“I know. Just get through the parade, then it’s gone.”

 

She nods sharply, taking in a deep breath. She takes a step back and stands for him. “Okay?”

 

He grins. “Your medal is crooked.”

 

Her head snaps down to the light blue ribbon of the medal around her neck, but it hangs as it always does--heavy and unyielding, an obtrusive reminder of things she’d always rather forget. “Screw you,” she says, a hint of a laugh sneaking into her voice.

 

“You look good, kid. Always do.”

 

She gives her uniform another tug, unable to keep her hands still. They shook in this uniform now. For years she’d worn her Army Blues with pride and a staunch duty to her job and her country. Now, the material feels abrasive against her skin, the collar like a hand tightening around her throat. There’s blood on this uniform that would never come out. Though not literal, it stained just as deeply, ruined just as thoroughly. She couldn’t stand to be in this uniform anymore, but the town that had saved her life-- that had picked her up at her lowest point and given her a home and a community--loved her in it, and never asked anything else of her. She twists the beret in her hands and forces herself to breath. Just one day. She could do one day.

  


 

Kandahar, Afghanistan | 2007

 

 

It’s a scorcher of a day, the temperature lingering in the triple digits of Fahrenheit even as the sun began to set. The heat was nothing new, however, and does nothing to deter the rowdy soldiers playing soccer in the sand outside their basecamp.

 

Mostly shirtless save for the few women littered about, soldiers dart and weave through plumes of dirt, their glistening skin on display and not a care in the world--at least for the blessed few hours or so between dinner and daily rollouts. The game is a raucous affair with unbridled cheering and shouts that echo off the rocky, mountainous walls encompassing them.

 

Staff Sergeant Roan Eisman laughs as he fumbles his way down the field with the ball, jostling shoulders with a guy nearly half his size, but built like a bulldog. Chants of “pass it!” and “over here!” fill the air, but Roan is on a mission. The last of his team members to get any kind of shot on goal, he’s determined to get one in before the other team gets the game winning point. He’s about as graceful as an elephant on roller skates his grandmother used to tell him, but not for lack of trying.

 

“Give up, Eisman,” Sergeant Williams goads, but Roan only laughs harder as he is momentarily knocked off balance before shoving free again.

 

“Come on, man! Pass the ball!”

 

Roan is about to shout back when suddenly his feet are no longer underneath him and he lands on his ass with a heavy thud. A moment later, the sound of cheers erupts and he groans, knowing that the game winning goal had already been scored. He squints up at the bright, blue sky as a shadow looms over him and sharpens into focus. He chuckles at the girl above him.

 

“What the hell, Woods? I was going to score that time.”

 

Specialist Lexa Woods, youngest member of his squad and as close to a little sister as he’d ever have, gives him a toothy grin as she helps him off the ground and brushes him off.

 

“You wish,” she says, laughing at his scowl. “Haven’t you ever heard of passing?”

 

“Haven’t you ever heard of a _friendly_ game?”

 

A giant of a man, so tall he made Roan’s 6’2 frame look average, comes up behind them and claps Lexa on the back, nearly throwing her off her feet. Shorter than everyone by a head, even at her taller than average 5’10 frame, she’s used to being accidentally thrown around. She catches herself and glares at the man, Sergeant Phillips, but he hasn’t noticed.

 

“Of course she hasn’t,” he says in his low, resonant voice. “Our very own varsity soccer player.” He claps her on the back again, and once more, she’s thrown off balance with the force of it.

 

It’d been three years since Lexa had been a forward for her high school varsity soccer team, but the moment the boys had learned of it, they’d never let it go. To them, she might as well be Mia Hamm. She rolls her eyes and lifts her shirt up, running it over her sweaty face enough to take the burn out of her eyes. When she lowers it, it’s just Roan standing beside her.

 

“Let’s talk,” he says succinctly.

 

“Everything okay, sir?”

 

“This is for your ears only. I shouldn’t even be telling you this.”

 

“Okay,” Lexa says slowly, eying him carefully. They had always been close, but he was her superior, and that was a line never to be trifled with. However, since he’s the one initiating the offering of confidential information, she just nods.

 

“You can’t tell anyone until it’s official, which won’t be for about another week or so, but,” he shrugs and grins at her, “your promotion was approved. In a week, you’ll be known going forward as Sergeant Woods. How’s that sound?”

 

Lexa laughs in disbelief. “Seriously?”

 

“Good job, kiddo. You killed your last PFT.” He pats her on the back and ruffles her hair, pushing her forward and towards the base recreation center.  “Go clean up. You stink. And get some rest. Tonight could get hairy if what I’m hearing over the wires holds up.”

  
  
  


Wiping the smile from her face so as not to arouse suspicion, Lexa pushes through the flaps of the recreation center, nodding at the men who instinctively look up long enough to see who it is, then back down at whatever it is they’re doing. When the fans placed in the four corners of the space hit her sweat slick skin, she grimaces down at herself. She’s sticky, dirty and in desperate need of a nap before their supply convoy rollout at twenty-three hundred hours.

 

“You in for some pool?” Phillips asks her, flopping down on the ratty couch near one of two old plasmas in the large recreation tent.

 

“I’m beat,” she sighs, tossing a billiard across the green, felt surface. “I think I’m gonna try to grab a nap before the rollout. Eisman heard it could get hairy.”

 

“It’s always hairy,” Phillips laughs. “It’s fucking Afghanistan.”

 

“Fair,” she says with a laugh, but doesn’t linger. “I’ll see you later.”

 

She smiles at his grunt of acknowledgement. Despite his lack of eloquence, Phillips was a charming son of a bitch who always had her back when things got hairy. Being a part of a support battalion, and a woman at that, she was never supposed to experience combat, but Afghanistan didn’t play by the rules, and she found herself surrounded by combat more often than not on their supply convoys. After three years of deployment, she could hold her own, but it was nice to know that Phillips, along with Eisman, Williams and Gutierrez had her back when things got rough. It was a close knit brotherhood she had managed to penetrate with her work ethic, determination and skill that often surpassed the boys as they often told her, and she was as beloved among them as any of their other brothers in arms.  

 

Her bones feel like lead after being in the sun all day, and she can tell she’s dehydrated. Despite her raging physical discomfort, she’s out within minutes of her head hitting her pillow. She only awakens when someone gives her leg a shake, and hisses out the nickname she’d reluctantly required from a combination of her last name, and her stature compared to the rest of the men surrounding her on base.

 

“Hey, Stump. Stump, Wake-up.”

 

She blinks rapidly, sand and dust having collected in her eyes in the short two hours she’d been asleep. Gutierrez lacks his usual goofy disposition when he leans over her, which immediately sets off alarm bells in her head. She sits up, looking at him with questions in her eyes.

 

“They moved up our rollout. Report came in that insurgents are all over our route. They know we’re coming.”

 

Lexa swallows against the dryness in her throat, trying to wrap her head around the words. “We’re still going?”

 

“Have to. Infantry is almost black on munitions.”

 

Lexa nods, the sleep instantly draining from her body, leaving her alert and buzzing with adrenaline. “I’ll be right out.”

 

“We rollout in fifteen.”

 

Lexa nods again and is already lacing up her boots before Gutierrez is out of sight.

  
  


 

The lead humvee is eerily quiet as Lexa navigates the hulking machine through the dark streets of Kandahar. No one talks more than they have to, and that alone has the hair on Lexa’s body standing straight up. A jovial bunch, Lexa’s unit can always be heard cracking jokes, even on their diciest of missions. Making up a part of the support brigade that supplies the army’s combat divisions and special forces units, her unit had learned to find levity wherever, whenever they could. Sitting in silence while the humvee jostles about and her brothers stare uneasily out of the windows, has Lexa more wound up than she’s ever been.

 

“It’s a left up here,” Roan says quietly, pointing with a gloved finger. “Take it slow. Keep your eyes ahead, we’ll take the buildings on either side.”

 

Lexa swallows as she nods, trying to stamp down the nerves roiling in her stomach. “We’re two klicks out,” she says, clearing her throat when her voice cracks. Mercifully making nothing of it, Roan just nods.

 

“Copy.”

 

“Gutierrez, Phillis take left. I’ll watch right.” He radios up to Williams in the weapons station. “How we looking up there?”

 

Williams voice comes over the comms in a static-filled murmur. “Quiet.”

 

“Eyes peeled.”

 

“Copy.”

 

Wanting more than anything to be silent rather than the biggest, loudest announcement of their presence in the insurgent filled neighborhood, the sounds of their convoy through the dirt roads makes Lexa cringe.

 

“Two o’clock,” Roan mutters as Lexa approaches the left turn. “I’ve got movement in that upper window. Williams, you see it?”

 

“I’ve got it.”

 

Lexa holds her breath for the silent seconds that ensue. Her heart pounds in her chest, drowning out almost everything else. Her gloved fingers creak as she grips the wheel and keeps her eyes on the road as her staff sergeant had ordered. The last thing they needed was for everyone to be busy looking to the sides while an ambush approached from the front.

 

“All clear,” Williams calls down after an eternity.

 

The tension inside the vehicle slowly drains back down to a hum and Lexa relaxes her grip on the wheel, slowly pressing on the gas. The humvee growls to life, pushing forward into the cold, night air, the headlights illuminating the steam billowing out from the engine like an angry bull. While the days burned hotter than hell, the nights were colder than anything Lexa could remember from her childhood in Brooklyn.

 

“The intersection up here, we go left. Initial report said right, but that’s no good anymore.”

 

“Copy,” Lexa says quietly, her eyes like a hawk’s gaze on the road in front of her.

 

The gentlest soul her sister had ever known, Anya had once balked at the idea of Lexa joining the Army, and hadn’t been afraid to speak her mind about it.  But Lexa wanted to go to college, and they were excruciatingly poor after their parents’ unforeseen death. The army would show her the world and pay for her school. There was little chance seed every see actual combat. Despite her sister’s worry, Lexa had enlisted the day of her eighteenth birthday and never looked back.

 

When she had been picked out for Motor Transport Operation after her Vocational Aptitude Battery, the wake-up call had rung loud and clear. Everyone knew women didn’t serve in combat roles, and everyone knew that, overseas, that was a load of BS. Being a Motor Transport Operator was one of the roles that got you as to combat as one could get without being infantry. She’d tried to fight it at first, but the decision had been made, and all she could do was dedicate herself to being as good at it as she could be if she wanted to make it out of her deployment alive.

 

Three years later, there’s nothing she loves more, or takes more seriously. She has one job--get her unit in and out safely--and she’s damn good at it. One of the best, in fact. Her team had come to trust her during these missions, almost above all else. Lexa had gotten them out of more than one hairy situation, and they never forgot. Despite her being the lowest ranking member of their squad, everyone felt a little better with her behind the wheel. She was quick on her feet in chaos, and had a natural knack for navigation, alway seeming to know where they were and how to get out at all times.

 

Taking notice of his driver’s tense shoulders, and understanding the burden of their lives she carried every time she got behind the wheel, Sergeant Phillips leans forward in his seat and gives Lexa upper arm a squeeze.

 

“Hey Stump,” he says, pulling his hand away to cradle the rifle against his chest, “what do you call a joe who survived mustard gas and pepper spray?”

 

Lexa’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror, studying him for a second, then returns to the road. Appreciating his attempt to lighten the mood, she clenches her jaw against her nerves and humors him.

“What.”

 

He grins. “A _seasoned_ veteran.”

 

“Oh my god,” Gutierrez groans. “That one was bad man.”

 

“Not as bad as your momma in bed,” Phillips shoots back and just barely manages to evade an elbow to the nose.

 

Lexa’s lip twitches, wanting to smile, but she’s too focused, too on edge. Beside her, Roan shakes his head, chuckling beneath his breath.

 

“Hey Williams,” Gutierrez radios up, “want to hear the worst joke of your life?”

 

“Is it your aim?” Williams replies without missing a beat.

 

“Damn,” Phillips says, long and drawn out, as he cracks up. Roan whistles, enjoying the burn. Lexa is about to chime in, finally feeling the affects of their familiar levity, when a woman in a burqa steps into the street out of nowhere, blocking their path. She stands about twenty feet ahead, directly in front of the humvee.

 

Lexa slams on the brakes, her blood running like ice through her veins. The laughter in the vehicle immediately dies down, and the idle humvee goes silent but for the hum of the engine. The woman seems to stare right at Lexa, and Lexa stares back, trying to determine whether she’s a hostile or a friendly. When the woman begins to move her arms, Lexa goes stiff, her right hand flying to the pistol on her hip.

 

“Sir?” She asks, low and measured.

 

Roan doesn’t answer, just watches the woman as she points to the road on the left and shakes her head.

 

The radio crackles and Williams comes over in a whisper. “Sir? You want me to communicate?”

 

“No,” Roan murmurs, “too loud.”

 

“Copy. You want me hot?”

 

“No, weapons down.”

 

“She friendly?”

 

He watches her for a moment longer. “I don’t know.”

 

The woman takes a step forward and they all shift, tensing as if ready to pounce. Again, she points to the left and shakes her head, more vehement this time.

 

“She doesn’t want us to go left, Sir,” Lexa observes, her eyes tracking the woman’s every movement.

 

“Of course she doesn’t,” Phillips hisses. “That’s the clear path. Lady probably thinks we’re stupid and didn’t get new intel. She’s trying to lead us into an ambush.”

 

“I don’t know,” Lexa mutters, squinting through the windshield.

 

“What are you thinking?” Roan asks, having learned to trust Lexa’s instincts when possible, despite her rank. She was a remarkable soldier with incredible instincts, a natural as it turned out, despite having heard her speech on pacifism the day she’d joined his squad. He almost grins at the memory of the spunky kid who’d walked onto base and very nearly bordered on insubordination.

 

“We’re on the border of two neighborhoods.  Friendly to the east, hostile to the north and west. She came from that way, over there.” She nods towards the east.

 

“Friendly,” Roan mutters.

 

“Oh come on. It’s a trap,” Phillip argues.

 

“Or a warning. What if the intel was bad all along? What’s the likelihood that an entire neighborhood with a history of being friendly was suddenly overrun with insurgents, who are now lying in wait, and we didn’t hear about it until an hour before we were supposed to roll out?” Lexa muses, the suspicion she’d had from the moment Gutierrez had informed her starting to resurface.

 

Roan listens and watches the woman as she points repeatedly to the right now, urging them that way.  

 

“Call her forward,” he decides, instructing Williams through the radio. Lexa’s insides coil so tight she wants to puke as Williams’ muffled shout in botched Arabic rings out in the otherwise silent night.

 

The woman hesitates, but eventually shuffles forward, quickly making her way to Lexa’s window. With one hand still on her pistol, Lexa sticks her head out and stares down at the woman, studying her eyes. They’re wide, terrified, but earnest.

 

“As-salaam‘alaykum,” Lexa greets, gentle and respectful, with a surprisingly competent accent.

 

“Wa ‘alaykum salaam,” the woman immediately replies, tilting her head forward in hello. Hearing her voice for the first time, Lexa’s chest aches upon realizing how young the girl must be. A teenager at most.

 

“Hal tatakallamina al-inkliziyyah?” Lexa asks. “Do you speak English?”

 

The woman shakes her head. Instead, she points to the left again, then makes a gun with her hand. The woman says something, and it sounds like a question, but Lexa doesn’t catch it. The girl holds up her hand in the shape of a gun again.

 

“No,” she says, willing Lexa to understand.  She crosses her arms and makes an X, and shakes her head.

 

“Taliban?” Lexa asks. She nearly jumps when the woman suddenly grabs the bottom of the window and nods like her head might come off.

 

Swallowing, Lexa points to the right instead. “Amina? Safe?”

 

The woman nods and removes herself from the window, stepping back. Lexa looks back at Roan, his eyes searching her face.

 

“What do you think?”

 

“My gut?”

 

“Always.”

 

“She’s telling the truth.”

 

“That’s as good as we’re gonna get,” he says, making the decision. “We can’t keep sitting here. Let’s go right.”

 

When Lexa turns back to the woman, adrenaline floods her body as she watches the woman reach into her burqua and start to pull something out.

 

“Stop!” She yanks her pistol out of the holster and points it at the woman’s forehead. “Ogaf! Ogaf!” Her shouts mix with Williams’ and she can practically feel him getting ready to fire.

 

The girl startles backwards with her hands up as something flutters out in front of her, and lands on the ground. Breathing heavily, Lexa ensures that the woman isn’t a threat before leaning out of the window and looking down. Her helmet light illuminates a circle on the ground, and she stares at the miniature American flag laying in the dust.

 

“Fuck,” she breathes and looks up at the girl whose hands are now shaking. Lexa holsters her pistol and raises her hands. “It’s okay,” she sighs. “It’s okay.” She looks back to the road, making sure the commotion had not drawn any unwanted attention, but it is just as deserted as it had been when they’d arrived. “To the right?” She asks the girl, when she turns back to her. She points to the road on the right. “Hasan? Okay”

 

The girl nods. “Okay,” she says, testing out the foreign word in her mouth. Lexa smiles.

 

“Okay. Sukran. Thank you.”

 

“Ma’a al-salamah,” the girls says with a nod.

 

Knowing that the girl is telling her to be safe, but her knowledge failing her in how to reply, Lexa smiles and reaches into her pocket. She pulls out her wallet and takes all of the dirham notes that she has, only totalling about twenty US dollars. She hands them to the girl who seems to hesitate before taking them.

 

“Sukran,” Lexa repeats. “Thank you.”

 

“Thank you,” the girls says, slowly, tripping over the words.  She reaches back into her burqa, and this time, Lexa forces herself not to tense. The girl holds out her fist and drops a tiny, tweed woven doll into Lexa’s palm. Lexa runs her thumb over it, marveling at the thing. When she looks up, the girl is already walking away, disappearing back into the shadows.

  
  


* * *

 

 

 

Polis | 2017

 

Lexa’s eyes burn as she and Roan walk silently among the Army reserve unit from the base thirty minutes down the coast. They always came up for the parade, and Lexa and Roan always walked with them, but it never got easier. Lexa clamps down so hard on her teeth that it gives her a headache, but she doesn’t falter. One foot in front of the other. This was all that was left of her duty now.

 

Her cheeks are wet by the time they round the corner towards the park. In a few hundred yards, she’d slip out as she always did. She’d pick a spot to listen to the Taps being played, and she would let herself break. This one day out of the year, she would let herself grieve the things she spent the rest of the year trying to forget. Just this once, just a little bit.

  


Atop Clarke’s shoulders, Ellie wriggles around and points at the fanfare of the passing parade. They had never done this in New York. Ellie had been too young, and the various parades much too crowded, but Clarke had known she would love something like this. She smiles and laughs as Ellie takes everything in, squealing in delight at all that amuses her.

 

She is not surprised by the uptake of excitement when the fire trucks come into view. What she’s not expecting, however, is the stirrings in the pit of her own stomach at the sight of them. Leaning forward, and not wanting to examine her reasons for why, Clarke peers around the heads in front of her, searching the sides of the trucks where various fire fighters clung, waving to the crowd.

 

“Twuck!” Ellie squeals repeatedly until Clarke’s disappointment at not finding Lexa gives way to fond amusement. She bounces Ellie up and down, nodding at her excitement, pressing her little hands to her lips for kisses. Memorial Day is a day for memories, often the most painful and unbearable, but also for the good ones.  She enjoys these moments of pomp, and appreciates the chance to memorialize those loved and lost with joy and lives lived to the fullest in their wake. To her, there is no better way to respect their sacrifice.

 

As the Army passes, Clarke looks away and thinks of her mother, hoping that she’s finding solace in close friends and neighbors that’d been there for her after Jake’s passing, perhaps even more so than Clarke had been able to from thousands of miles away.

 

“You okay?” Raven asks, leaning over.

 

“Yeah,” Clarke says quickly, throwing on a cheerful smile. “Having fun?”

 

“Totally. Where’s your firefighter?”

 

Without bothering to correct her, Clarke scans the passing trucks, again feeling her stomach drop in disappointment when Lexa is nowhere to be found. She shrugs, trying to hide the twinge in her chest. “They must not be in the parade. I don’t see Roan or any of the others.”

 

“I saw Lincoln a second ago.”

 

Clarke frowns, but says nothing.

 

“Maybe we’ll see them after. I’m sure they’ll show up, even if it’s just for crowd control. Wells said PFD would be here most of the day.”

 

Clarke whips around, her eyes wide. “Did you ask him that?”

 

“Relax,” Raven replies with a laugh. “He offered it up on his own. He asked if we’d be out today and I told him we would be.”

 

“Oh.” Clarke’s worry deflates and she nods, satisfied that Raven hadn’t gone and stirred up curiosity as to why they would care if the Polis Fire Department would be out. The last thing she needed was more people probing into her life about things that didn’t exist.

 

“He knows, though.”

 

“Knows what?”

 

“About Lexa.”

 

“What about Lexa? There’s nothing about Lexa.”  

 

Raven arches her brown, but says nothing.

 

“I thought Octavia said you promised to layoff.”

 

“Sure, I’ll lay off,” Raven chuckles, “but I’m not going to lie when the important people in your life come asking questions.”

 

Clarke gives Ellie a bounce and squeezes her little hands, but her face folds into consternation. “What do you mean? What did Wells ask?”   

 

“He said he walked in on you and Lexa nearly kissing in the kitchen.”

 

“ _What_? That’s not--we weren’t--” Clarke shakes her head, unable to complete a sentence.

 

“I know,” Raven says gently, her eyes hitting every telling crease in Clarke’s worried face. “But there’s something between you two. Something different. Intense, even, and the people who love you are going to start to wonder.”

 

“Well they should mind their own business,” Clarke snaps, more venomous than she had intended.

 

“All I’m saying is, no one’s faulting you for being interested, whether it’s in friendship or something more, but when you look at her like you’ve been trapped in a desert for years and she’s the first body of water you’ve seen in a very long time, people are going to make their own assumptions. Wells knows you. He can tell you like her, _platonically_ or otherwise,” she adds before Clarke can object, “so he thought you might like to know that PFD would be out here today. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing, because a second ago, you looked like someone ran over your cat.”

 

“And now?” Clarke challenges, her brow arching high in a dare.

 

“You look like the cat.”

 

Clarke glares, but she doesn't argue. She does like Lexa. There’s not much about Lexa to _not_ like. So why did that feel so damn incriminating? She grinds her teeth, wondering when her new life back home would turn into the walk in the park she’d thought it would be. She turns her attention back to the parade and slips Ellie down from her shoulders, cradling against her chest. Ellie nuzzles into her collarbones, then looks up at her, her cheeks flushed from the sun overhead.

 

“Wexa?” She asks, as if she could read her mother’s mind.

 

Clarke smiles. At least she’s not the only one with feelings.

  
  


 

Lexa splashes her face in the bathroom of the bank across the road for the third time, no longer grimacing against the ice cold water. When she dries her face, her eyes are no longer red and puffy, and she squares the uniform on her torso. Satisfied that she looks as put together as ever, she turns and heads out, crossing the street towards her table.

 

When Anya looks up and smiles at her, a glimmer of light begins to fight its way out of the darkness billowing around inside her.

 

“Hey, kid. How’d it go?”

 

Lexa shrugs and leans her weight on her hands atop the table. She smiles and nods at the woman sitting beside Anya, a volunteer Lexa didn’t yet know. She ignores the look of awe on the woman’s face, hating it’s presence that so often came whenever anyone took in the medal around her neck. If it were up to her, she wouldn’t wear the thing, but Roan always insisted, reminding her that they ought never to forget the ones they lost in the act that had earned her the award.

 

“Fine,” she says, and offers nothing more, knowing Anya would know not to press further.

 

“How’s Roan?”

 

“Good.”

  
“Good. You want to sit?”

 

“No, no. I’m fine. You hungry? You want me to take over?”

 

Anya waves her off and grabs a sandwich from a cooler by her feet. “I ate. You want the rest?”

 

“Ham and cheese?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Lexa smiles like a child, and Anya is relieved to see the familiar, fun-loving sparkle return to Lexa’s eyes for a moment.

 

“Yeah,” her little sister says eagerly, taking the sandwich half from her. While Lexa eats, Anya takes in the uniform so perfectly tailored to Lexa’s lithe form. She hadn’t seen her before the parade, and the sight of her in the Army Service Uniform always instilled a mixture of pride and dread deep into her heart. Anya had always thought the worst day of her life had been the day her eleven-year-old sister had called her at college, sobbing from a hospital lobby with the news that their parents were gone. Then she thought that maybe it had been standing on the sidewalk as she watched the bus carrying her sister disappear down the road, bound for basic training in Missouri. She had been wrong on both accounts. The worst day of her life wouldn’t come for another three years, when a phone call from the Army put a halt to life as she knew it. For a while after that call, she had blamed that uniform for the excruciating pain, both mental and physical, she’d watched her sister claw her way out of while she stood by feeling utterly helpless and entirely useless.

 

“You sure you don’t want to sit?” She asks, starting to get up from her chair.

 

Lexa waves the sandwich in her hand and shake her head, her mouth full. “All good,” she mumbles around the food, making Anya laugh.

 

“Can you stick around for a bit? I have some people who want to meet you.”

 

Lexa groans, throwing her head back as she swallows the bite in her mouth. “Anya,” she growls, when she brings her head up to look at her. “We talked about this.”

 

“It’s just two.”

 

“You promised no more show and tell.”

 

“One of them is a disabled vet.”

 

Lexa’s scowl deepens. “That’s cheating.”

 

“She’s a former first lieutenant in the Air Force, so...technically your superior,” Anya says with a wicked grin.

 

“Anya.”

 

“They really like what we’re doing here. I know they’d really like to meet you. This is the last time, Lex. I promise. Please?”

 

Lexa sighs. “Who’s the other one?”

 

“What?”

 

“You said two. One’s a disabled vet, the other is?”

 

“She’s an Army brat.”

 

Lexa nods. “Fine. But I’m going to fake a phone call five minutes in if I have to.”

 

“Deal,” Anya grins.

 

“You got anymore food?”

  
  


 

Clarke holds Ellie to her chest, opting to fold the stroller and let Raven carry it under her arm as they made their way through the dissipating crowd. They’d need to find their spots soon for the band concert and picnic dinner, but Raven wanted to meet Anya’s sister, and Clarke was happy to oblige.

 

“What branch did she say her sister was?” Raven asks, looking over her shoulder at her.

 

“She didn’t say.”

 

Raven nods and Clark muses at the tight set of her best friend’s shoulders, the nervous set of her jaw. Raven had never really had the chance to be a veteran. In the blink of an eyes she had gone from being a pilot, to full-time rehab, and back to grad school to become an explosives specialist for the NYPD.  Perhaps, Clarke suspects, Raven wasn’t exactly sure how to be a veteran. Not in a town like this. And not surrounded by others just like her.

 

When they break through the crowd and onto the street, Clarke spots Anya’s table and takes in the back of the soldier leaning over it. Her stomach flips at the sight of the familiar Army Dress Uniform, and she does her best to squash down thoughts of the last time she’d seen her father in that uniform.

 

Even from the back, Clarke can appreciate the strong lines of the woman’s body, accentuated by the crisp, tailored fit of the uniform. Her shoulders are broad, but still womanly, her legs long and lean. Growing up around the military, it had come as no surprise to her that as she came into herself, and her sexuality blossomed, it didn’t really matter whether they were a man and a woman, but a uniform? That would always do it for her.

 

Her eyes rake up and down the woman’s lean form as she and Raven grew closer, finally looking away when Anya catches sight of them and stands to wave them over. Clarke smiles and hitches Ellie up onto her hip so that she can free up a hand to wave. At Anya’s greeting, Clarke watches the soldier stand and turn to meet them. At the sight of her face, Clarke’s body slams to a stop, her heart leaping up into her throat.

 

“Oh my god,” she breathes, the air leaving her lungs in a rush. Her entire body flushes, and to her horror she realizes she wants to cry. But for god knows what? Simultaneously, Raven has gone just as stiff beside her.

 

“Holy shit,” Raven whispers. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. That’s—“

 

Raven is the first to start walking again. It take Clarke a moment to follow, her eyes locked on Lexa who was now staring at her in just as much shock. Blinking, she rushes after Raven, clearing the distance between them and the table in a matter of strides.

 

She’s still a step behind when Raven snaps into a salute in front of Lexa. Clarke frowns amidst the overwhelming onslaught of emotions clouding her head, aware enough to be confused as to why Raven would be saluting out of uniform. That is of course until her gaze lands on the baby blue ribbon around Lexa’s neck. Her mouth parts with a silent gasp as her eyes snap up to Lexa’s, wide and bewildered.

 

Lexa returns the salute out of respect, but quickly lowers it, waving Raven off.

 

“Please,” she says, deflecting the unnecessary and undeserved reverence. “That’s not necessary. After all, I hear you outrank me.”

 

“Holy Jesus hell,” Raven says, and some of the tension dissipates when they all chuckle at her lack of eloquence. “Are you kidding? Of course it’s necessary! Lexa, holy hell. You’re—it’s you! How did I not? I _knew_ you looked familiar! Your hair was shorter, wasn’t it? Why didn’t you tell me?” She turns to Clarke without letting Lexa respond. “Why didn’t _you_ tell me? You Alexa Woods, _the_ Alexa Woods, first woman to be awarded the Medal of Honor, walking around your house and you just let me literally drag her into your backyard and stuff my face in front of her?”

 

Clarke doesn’t remove her gaze from Lexa’s when she shakes her head slightly. “I didn’t know,” she says, barely audible. Lexa’s gaze softens into something tender, and so unbelievably gentle.

 

“It’s really you, isn’t it?” Raven asks, oblivious to the electricity zapping between the two women next to her.

 

Lexa licks her lips and nods, forcing on a small smile because Raven was Clarke’s friend, and she liked the woman on her own merits too.

 

“Yes,” Lexa murmurs, unable to keep from sneaking glances over at Clarke, wondering what thoughts were hidden behind those beautiful, blue eyes.

 

“So I take it you all know each other?” Anya suddenly leans over, taking in the scene.

 

“Know each other?” Raven scoffs, but it comes out soft and strained. Emotional. She looks at Lexa. “I joined the military because of you,” she says, her voice cracking. “You’re a hero.”

 

“I’m not,” Lexa says quickly, shaking her head, hard. “I’m really not.”

 

“The nation thinks you are. I think you are.”

 

“I just did my job,” Lexa insists, her stolen glances over to Clarke becoming more and more frantic as she begins to notice the pallor of Clarke’s face and the confusion in her eyes. She wants to reach out to her, wants to keep her from the desire to bolt she can see infused into every taught, rigid muscle of her body.

 

Finally, Raven tears her gaze away from Lexa long enough to catch sight of Clarke, and she is immediately assaulted by the overwhelming waves of emotion wafting off of her, and the intensity of her gaze on Lexa. Biting her lip at her oversight, Raven quickly steps back towards the table and gestures to the space between them.

 

“You two should talk,” she says cautiously.

 

“Yes,” Lexa says, watching Clarke carefully. “Clarke?” She asks, inviting her to an empty area beside the tables for a bit of private. Clarke follows her silently, sifting through all the things she wants to say and ask, but not having any idea where to start. When Lexa stills, Clarke nearly runs into her, so lost in her thoughts.

 

“Sorry,” she murmurs, chuckling at herself when Lexa catches her by the elbow and offers her a small smile.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” Clarke says, peeling her nervous gaze from the ground. She takes Lexa in, the striking woman somehow seeming taller, more auspicious in her uniform. Her gaze lands on the gold star surrounded by a green laurel wreath resting below Lexa’s collar, the word valor inscribed on a gold bar surmounted by an eagle. Her hand instinctively rises to it, the tips of her fingers touching it for a moment, before tears fill her throat.

 

“You...I...wow,” is all she manages, taking her hand away and finally looking up to meet Lexa’s soft, worried gaze.

 

“I’m sorry,” Lexa murmurs, searching Clarke’s face.

 

Clarke laughs, but it comes out more like a croak. She shakes her head in disbelief. “Whatever for?”

 

“I don’t know.” Lexa licks her lips again. “I seem to have upset you.”

 

“No.” Clarke’s answer is the first sure, firm thing out of her mouth since seeing her, and her head shake is just as emphatic. “God no, you haven’t upset me. You couldn’t possibly upset me with this, Lexa. I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. And the medal,” Clarke laughs, “I guess I’m a little star struck. And honored.”

 

“God,” Lexa sighs, her face contorting into a sort of grimace. “Please, don’t. I’m...I’m not worth that. I’m not anything special.”

 

“Oh, Lexa.” Clarke steps forward, her hand coming to rest atop the ribbons over Lexa’s heart. “You are more special than you could ever know.”

 

Lexa swallows so hard Clarke can see it in her throat, and she aches for the woman beneath her palm who is so clearly unaware of just how incredible she is. Her hand shifts across Lexa’s chest, once again moving to the medal hanging over the knot of her tie. She takes the medal into her palm, shaking her head in awe as she examines it.

 

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, running her thumb across the ridges of the legendary medal. If only her father were here to see this. “The idea behind it meant so much to my father. I wish--” but she shakes her head, unable to complete the thought.  Amazingly still and quiet until that moment, Ellie shifts in her mother’s arms and reaches out for the medal, her tiny hand grasping at the air.

 

Lexa laughs softly. “There she is,” she says as she reaches behind her and pulls the medal off. “Do you want to hold this?”

 

“Lexa,” Clarke nearly gasps, starting to shake her head.

 

“It’s alright.” Lexa hands the medal to Ellie, smiling as the toddler takes it into her little hand and wonders at it. Ellie gives it a shake, making Clarke cringe, but Lexa only chuckles.

 

“She could drop it,” Clarke says, her hand underneath Ellie’s, ready to catch it.

 

“It’ll survive.”

 

“It’s the Medal of--”

 

“I know what it is,” Lexa interrupts, her voice harder than Clarke has ever heard it. Clarke stares at Lexa, her heart breaking at the hard anger clouding Lexa’s eyes.

 

Growing up with a career military father, Clarke’s bedtime stories had never been about princesses and dragons or castles. Instead, she fell asleep to the legends of valor, the actions of the men and women who put their life on the line for their country. Instead of charming knights, it was the story of warriors, and all those who rose above. To her family, and all the other military families she grew up with, the Medal of Honor was a thing of godly importance, owing to it unparalleled respect and care for the brave souls who sacrificed for it. To see Lexa’s disregard for it, a disregard almost bordering on disdain, Clarke wondered what immense horrors Lexa must have endured.

 

“I’m sorry,” Lexa whispers. When Clarke looks up to find Lexa staring at her, tears in her eyes, her heart finally does break, and it’s everything she can do not to clutch at her chest. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m so sorry.”

 

“Oh sweetheart,” she gasps, stepping towards her.

 

A tear spills over onto Lexa’s cheek, and Clarke is there in an instant, brushing it away with her thumb. Her hand cradles Lexa’s face, and the exhausted, distraught veteran leans into it. With Ellie between them, Clarke slips her hand to the back of Lexa’s neck and pulls her into a hug, shivering at the feel of Lexa’s warm breath on the shell of her ear when Lexa issues another apology, raw and whispered.

 

“It’s alright. It’s alright, Lex.”

 

Lexa nods, sniffing into Clarke’s hair, relishing the softness and the warmth of her embrace until Ellie’s whine forces them apart. When she pulls back, Ellie gazes up at her just long enough for her little face to contort into a scared sob, and it dawns on her.

 

“Oh,” she murmurs, watching the toddler bury her face into her mother’s neck. “You don’t recognize me, do you?” Swiftly, she removes the bobby pins holding her beret in place and takes it off, tucking it into her pocket. She undoes the low bun at the base of her skull and runs her fingers through her hair, jostling it lose until she can get it into the higher, loser bun she usually has it in. Finally, she unbuttons her jacket, then her dress shirt and undoes her tie, folding it all over her arm until she is in nothing but her white crew neck t-shirt and uniform slacks.

 

“Ellie?” She bends her head, searching for Ellie’s eyes, and smiles when Ellie shyly untucks her head and looks up at her. With recognition comes the tiniest of smiles that quickly grows into a blinding, toothy grin.

 

“There she is,” Lexa exclaims.

 

“Wexa!” Ellie chirps in delight, instantly pushing off her mother and reaching for the firefighter she knows so well.

 

With the widest smile Clarke has ever seen, Lexa scoops Ellie into her arms and hikes her up until they’re eye level, gazing at the beautiful, little girl, a spitting image of her mother. “There’s my girl,” Lexa sighs.

 

Clarke does not expect the rush of heady arousal that surges through her at Lexa’s casual claim of possession. She has never once wanted to share Ellie before. Ellie is hers and it had always been the two of them against the world after Jack had torn her life upside down, but at Lexa’s words, Clarke finds her heart racing in her chest. It’s both amazing and terrifying to realize that she’s not only okay with the thought of Lexa’s words, she _likes_ the thought of it.

 

Suddenly a little too much to digest, Clarke clears her throat and gestures to the tables where Anya and Raven sat talking. “We should probably head back. They might think we’ve stolen off without them.”

 

Lexa’s smile falls, but she catches herself quickly and nods. Today is hard for all of them, and some things were just a little too much all at once.

 

“Sure,” she says, forcing her tone to be light. “Let’s head back.”

  
  


 

The walk home is silent with Ellie asleep in the stroller and Raven trailing a step or two behind. Clarke can tell her best friend had something on her mind, but she’s too tired to draw it out of her, and honestly, she would rather be left to her own thoughts swirling around in her mind. Lexa was a soldier. She was a soldier who had spent a year in the hospital, Anya had said. A soldier who had received the Medal of Honor for some distinguished act of valor, but could hardly stand the weight of it around her neck. Clarke was utterly at a loss, but one thing was clear--Lexa had suffered. She had suffered something unimaginable that left her disillusioned and scarred. Clarke couldn’t help but wonder, what had this gentle, achingly sweet soul gone through?

 

“I can hear you thinking,” Raven says from behind her, her voice low enough to not wake the baby.

 

Clarke doesn’t answer right away as she sifts through all the questions in her head, trying to find a place to start.

 

“You knew her,” she finally says, stopping to allow Raven to fall into step with her before proceeding forward. “Immediately, upon seeing her in her uniform with the medal, you knew who she was.”

 

“Of course. Everyone does.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Everyone in the service,” Raven amends.

 

“Why?”

 

“She’s a Medal of Honor recipient. She’s a national hero.”

 

“You mean to tell me you know all three thousand or so people who have been awarded the Medal of Honor?”

 

“Well, no,” Raven starts, “but she’s…” She stops and shakes her head.

 

“There. That pause. That’s what I want to know,” Clarke says, turning to look at her. “You’re never speechless, Raven Reyes. And you don’t get nervous, but when you saw her, you were trembling like a schoolgirl.”

 

Raven barks out a laugh. “Yeah. I joined the military because of her.”

 

“I heard you say that to her. Why? What did she do?”

 

“I thought for sure you would know already. I mean, she was the first woman to receive the medal, and she’s Army.”

 

Clarke shakes her head and shrugs. “After dad retired, I didn’t want to know about the Army. I didn’t want to think about what he had been through or what his friends had been through. I just wanted to enjoy the fact that he was home.”

 

Raven nods. “Well, at the time, everyone I knew had heard the story of Army Sergeant Alexa Woods. All my friends were ROTC because of my parents. So naturally, they of course knew everything that went on, as soon as it happened.  When we all heard what she’d done, no one could believe it. I remember sitting on the couch in my residence hall, watching the medal ceremony with some Air Force ROTC kids. God, she was so young,” she recounts, her voice distant as if she were reliving that day in her mind. “Man, I thought I knew what I wanted in life, but seeing her up there with the president...she changed everything for me. No one could even fathom what she did that night. I mean, it was inhuman. Out there all alone for hours... no one does that. She’s literally the definition of valor.” Raven shrugs. “She made me want something more for myself. Hanging out with the ROTC kids, I knew with my degree I could commission in when I graduated, so that’s what I did. I owe my career to her. God.” Raven shakes her head and laughs. “I knew she looked familiar, but her hair was short back then when I watched her receive the medal. And her face was...rough.”

 

Clarke’s eyes flutter shut, her mind agonizing over the thought of Lexa injured and in pain. Her mind races in a million different directions. What had Lexa done? Why had Clarke let her fears get the best of her at the park earlier when all she wanted to do now was gather Lexa into her arms and never let go? Why did Lexa’s medal, and her heroic stature in the eyes of fellow servicemen, pain her so much? What had she lost? Why did she look at Clarke the way she did, as if Clarke was the only person in the room worth looking at? Clarke was no one, and Lexa was...Lexa was everything.

 

“I think I messed up,” she whispers.

 

“Why do you say that?”

 

“When we were talking earlier, I just,” she shrugs, “I don’t know. I panicked, and I froze her out.” Clarke groans, tossing her head back. “Why are emotions so fucking difficult?” She stops walking, a realization hitting her. “I think I need to call her.”

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t know, I just feel like I need to apologize.”

 

“Oh.” Raven frowns. “Well, she probably won’t pick up.”

 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ray. Jeez.”

 

“No, I mean--” Raven snorts and rolls her eyes, “she’s in DC.”

 

“What?”

 

“Medal of Honor recipients get invited to all the national events. National Memorial Day concert, Inaugurations, the whole shebang. Anya told me every year Lexa does the parade here in the morning, then like sprints to the airport afterwards and the Army flies her to DC for all the various national ceremonies. She’ll be gone for a week.”

 

“Oh,” Clarke says quietly, her disappointment apparent to even her own ears. “Well, I’ll call her after, then.”

 

Clarke wraps her arms over her chest, somehow both too cold and too hot all at once, completely out of sorts. They don’t talk again until they part ways at Raven’s house for the night. For the rest of the block, Lexa lingers in Clarke’s mind. She stays there through tucking Ellie in, locking up the house, and finishing the leftover dishes in the sink. It’s when Clarke catches sight of the cabinet door Lexa had fixed for her just two days earlier that her curiosity gets the best of her.

 

Padding across the floor in her baggy pajama bottoms and barefeet, Clarke grabs her laptop from the coffee table and curls up with it on the couch. She hesitates on the blank search bar for a moment, suddenly aware that if she did this, she’d be breaching some kind of personal boundary she would never be able to uncross.

 

“Well,” she sighs, “it _is_ public knowledge.” Forcing her guilt to the back of her mind, she types: Alexa Woods, Medal of Honor, Army.

  


 

* * *

  
  


Kandahar | 2007

  


By the time Lexa hops down out of her humvee after returning to base twenty-four hours later, her body aches from being coiled so tight for so long. Now that the adrenaline was gone, the fatigue hits her like a brick wall and she can barely keep herself up as she unpacks the truck. She takes her friends’ pats on the back with tired nods and forced smiles, but all she wants to do is crawl in bed and hide away for a day or two. Fat chance of that happening.  

 

“Hey, Stump,” Phillips calls out, walking over to her. “Good call yesterday. I didn’t get a chance to tell you.”

 

Lexa takes the compliment with a silent nod, her jaw bunching against the memory she was already trying to bury. If she had been wrong about the girl, she could have gotten them all killed. As if reading her mind, he grips her shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

 

“We all trust you. You know that, right?”

 

“Sure,” she says, managing a small smile.

 

“I’m serious. You may be a baby, but I’ll serve with you til the day I die.”

 

“Yeah, well. No one’s dying,” Lexa says, shouldering her pack. “Get some sleep, Phillips. I’m gonna kick your butt in pool tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah, you keep dreaming.”

 

Lexa rolls her eyes with a grin and walks away, but he jogs after her.

 

“I’m not giving you a goodnight kiss,” she says before he can saying anything.

 

He laughs. “Damn. Well, in that case, you think you could teach me some of that Arabic you used yesterday?”

 

“Tonight?” Lexa asks, horror filling her voice.

 

“No, no, like. You know. Whenever.”

 

Lexa studies him, wondering about the sudden shyness. “Yeah, sure,” she says, carefully.

 

“I wouldn’t have known what to say,” he mutters.

 

“What?”

 

“I would have probably gotten us all killed. I didn’t trust her, and I have no idea what you two said.”

 

“You would’ve done alright.”

 

He shrugs and toes at the dirt.

 

“You know Safar from engineering?”

 

“Jared?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Sort of. We deployed together last year,” he says, frowning at her. “Why?”

 

“He’s teaching me.”

 

“Engineering?”

 

Lexa snorts. “No. Arabic. His family’s from Iraq. We do it every Tuesday and Thursday after lunch. We did basic together, and when we kept seeing each other around on deployment, he offered to teach me Arabic if I taught him how to juggle a soccer ball.” She chuckles. “He can definitely juggle better than I can speak Arabic. But he’s a good teacher. You should come by.”

 

“Oh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”

 

“John,” Lexa grabs his upper arm and squeezes it, recognizing the strange wash of conflicting emotions that always came with the dissipation of adrenaline in the system. “You did good yesterday. I trust you with my life. We all do. Go get some sleep.” She pats his arm and walks away. “And come Tuesday,” she calls over her shoulder.

 

Later that night, Lexa sits in the corner of her bunk with a pad of paper resting on her knees. She doesn’t write letters often, but Anya enjoys receiving them, and if she were being honest, she enjoys writing them. There’s nothing truly of substance in them given all the security parameters imposed on soldiers’ outgoing correspondence, but Lexa enjoys the moment of quiet to herself, recounting the ridiculous things her friends did or the horrible atrocity their base calls food. Even with the poor quality, her stomach grumbles at the thought of the dinner she’d missed while sleeping.

 

She just signing off when a ruckus outside her quarters makes her grin. She’d know those voices anywhere, had come to rely on them for her life sometimes. It’d only been a few hours since she’d seen them last, but still it’s a welcome sound. Out here, her unit is as close to family as she’d ever had besides Anya. Though she would never tell him for fear of insulting his pride, Roan was the closest thing to a father she knew since her own father’s death. Williams, Phillips and Gutierrez were the brothers she never knew she wanted until suddenly she had them. And now, she’d never give them up.

 

She chuckles as they come stumbling into her quarters, uncaring of the gender separation rules in place to keep the men in one set of quarters and the women in another. With only a handful of women deployed to this particular base though, no one truly cared who came and went.

 

“Stump!”  

 

Only Roan is missing from the group when they round the corner towards her bed, and she suspects that’s the cause for their particular disregard for decorum.

  
“We’re going out,” Williams announces.

 

“Where could you possibly be going at zero two hundred?”

 

“That bar across town. Some of the boys from the hundred and first are there. They invited us.”

 

“What are they doing here?”

 

“Pit stop, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. We’re gonna get DRUNK,” he hoots, followed by a raucous cheer.

 

“From the sound of it, you already are,” Lexa laughs, looking them over. “You get into Garetzky’s shit?”

 

“Maybe,” Gutierrez says, grinning, “you gonna tell?”

 

Lexa raises her hands. “No. But don’t you think you should maybe call it a night? Things could have gotten really hot last night. You want to go out into that possibility for a little bit of bad beer?”

 

“Oh come on, party pooper. It’ll be fun. Navy’s there. Everyone knows they can’t hold their liquor.”

 

Lexa smiles. “You guys are trouble.”

 

“Trouble you love,” Williams snorts, quite sure of himself.

 

Lexa looks at Phillips, the quietest of the bunch. “What do you think, James?”

 

He shrugs. “It’ll be fun. You should come.”

 

“Every party needs a pooper,” Williams starts to sing as Gutierrez chimes in, horridly off key.

 

“God, stop,” Lexa laughs, covering her ears. “Stop!”

 

“Well are you coming or what?”

 

“Does Eisman know?”

 

“Does Eisman know what?” Roan asks, strolling into the bunk.

 

“About going out,” Williams says to him before turning back to Lexa. “Yeah, he knows. He’s the one who told us to come talk to you about it.”

 

“What, you weren’t going to invite me yourself?” Lexa asks, feigning offense.

 

“Shut up, of course we were.  But he said we can’t go unless you go, so come on.”

 

“What? Why?” She asks, looking at Roan now.

 

“Are you kidding? Look at them, they a bunch of morons,” Roan says. “I need to you to keep an eye on them.”

 

She sighs, staring at her small, but closer than close unit for a moment, deliberating. “Go get in the truck, I’ll be there in a minute,” she concedes.

 

When they leave, shouting and cheering until she can’t hear them anymore, she looks to Roan. “They outrank me,” she says, unsure of what it is he’s asking of her.

 

“I’m not asking you to give them orders. Just keep your eyes peeled. You know how they get when they’re blowing off steam. I’d go, but I’m old and I need my sleep,” he says with a laugh. “I know I can count on you.”

 

“I’ll get ‘em home.”

 

“I know you will.”

 

“Stump!” A voice calls from outside. “Let’s go!”

  


* * *

 

 

 

Polis | 2017

 

Clarke stares at the search results on her screen, her eyes fixed on images of a young Lexa, puffed up and proud in her Army portrait. She looked so terribly young, barely anything more than a child. Her hair is shoulder length, and it suits her handsome face, though Clarke couldn’t imagine her now with anything other than the long, silky chestnut hair.

 

She clicks on the image results, scanning until she finds what has to be a picture of the young sergeant in  rehab. Her heart thumps painfully in her chest at the sight of Lexa, battered and so very broken. In a wheelchair, her head bandaged and her eyes so swollen you couldn’t see the brown, you could hardly tell it was the same girl with the proud shoulders and fierce smile. Clarke reaches up, her fingers grazing over the screen, tracing the lines of the bruised, but beautiful face staring back at her. Those beautiful eyes Clarke had come to adore were so hollow as they stared into the camera lens. Hollow and pained.

 

She navigates to a page with the profiles of all the Medal of Honor recipients and finds Lexa quickly, not many having received the award since her. She clicks on the picture of Lexa in full body armor, a rifle across her chest and a charming grin beneath the dark, impenetrable sunglasses on her face.

 

* * *

  
  


Kandahar | 2007

 

By the time Lexa gets outside to the waiting pick-up trucks, both are idling with headlights on, ready to go.

 

“You took too long, man. This one’s full,” Williams says, leaning out the passenger window of the first truck. “Go get in with them, I told them to save you a seat.” He gestures to the truck behind him and Lexa scowls. “You snooze ya lose, now come on let’s go.”

 

Lexa climbs into the truck, bumping fists with the boys from other units she knew decently well from their time together on base.

 

“Heard you nearly got blowed up yesterday,” Davis, a young and broodish-looking blonde with dark, grey eyes says, making room for her in the back.

 

“Nah. No problems.”

 

“Good. You out again tomorrow?”

 

“Don’t know. You?”

 

He shrugs with a charming, devilish grin. “Don’t know.”

 

She laughs, finding camaraderie in their shared lack of knowledge regarding any of the missions they may or may not get sent on day in and day out. Sometimes, it was the same thing every day for weeks -- wake up, workout, eat, workout, got to sleep. And sometimes, they found themselves suddenly thrust into the middle of a combat zone at any hour of day, attempting to get supplies to the front.

 

The trucks pull out and they all salute to the ranking guard at the gate, falling into easy, jovial conversation once past the base. The night immediately envelopes them into the dark belly of the desert, their headlights the only thing lighting their path.

 

Beside her,  Davis thumbs at a tiny teddy bear keychain about the size of his pointer finger. He notices her watching and holds it up for her to see. “My daughter’s,” he says, quietly.

 

“It’s cute. How old is she?”

 

“Just turned four. Gave it to me when I was home last.”

 

Lexa nods, a familiar knot forming in her throat. “You miss her?”

 

Davis laughs under his breath. “Like you have no idea. You got kids?”

 

She shakes her head.

 

“Married?”

 

“Nah.”

 

“Siblings?”

 

Lexa smiles. “A sister.”

 

“Older? Younger?”

 

“Older. She basically raised me.”

 

“I got a younger sister. She lives with my wife and little girl when I’m gone.”

 

“That’s gotta help. How long you got?”

 

“Til I’m out?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Bout six months. You?”

 

Lexa shrugs. “I’ll probably stay in a while.”  

 

“How long you been in logistics?”

 

“Since deployment. Three years.”

 

“You like it?”

 

“Not much of a choice,” she says with a laugh.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

She looks down at her chest. “Tits,” she says, laughing at the pink that immediately skirts up his neck and cheeks..

 

“Sorry,” he chuckles, “sometimes I forget out here.” His eyes widen comically. “Not saying you’re not pretty or anything. I mean you’re a pretty girl. You look like a girl. But the lines blur out here, you know? Everyone’s doing the same thing out here. You forget what makes you different.”

 

She nods. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Then, with a grin, “Sometimes I forget you guys are boys the way you scream when the snakes get into the showers.”

 

The truck erupts in laughter and Lexa is pushed around with jovial shoves and punches on the arm until even she gives and and joins in on their laughter.

  
  


* * *

 

Polis | 2017

 

Clarke leans forward on the couch, her fingers coming to rest on her chin as she starts in on the citation beneath Lexa’s picture.

 

_Sergeant Alexa M. Woods was serving as a Motor Transport Operator, deployed to the Kandahar Province of Afghanistan when she distinguished herself by extraordinary acts of heroism above and beyond the call of duty, with no regard to her own life while off duty on August 14, 2007. Early that morning, Sergeant Woods and nine others left base in two civilian trucks on route to a local eating establishment after completing a complicated, but successful supplies mission the night before. At approximately zero two hundred hours, and nearly thirty-two klicks from base, a well-organized insurgent force initiated an attack on the vehicles using a rocket propelled grenade and machine gun fire. A devastating wave of rocket propelled grenade rounds instantly detonated both vehicles, engulfing them in flames. After the initial explosion, Sergeant Woods, while severely wounded and bleeding heavily, pulled herself from her vehicle and proceeded to attempt extraction from the lead vehicle. Upon ascertaining that there were no survivors, she turned her attention to her own vehicle where she extracted Sergeant Wilson R. Davis._

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Kandahar | 2007

 

The air around them is barely breathable, thick with acrid smoke and the smell of cordite. Lexa forces herself to ignore the pain ripping through her side as she drags Davis’ limp body away from the flames and across the dirt. Her arms are boneless, her muscles limp and ineffectual. The adrenaline is there, Lexa can feel it in the violent shake of her hands, but even so, everything hurts.

 

Gasping for air, she tugs on the front of Davis’ torn jacket. The burnt fabric tears away in shreds at her grasp, forcing her to regrip with every tug. Her lungs burn. Every breath feels like it should be her last with how hard it is to draw it in. Her movements in the deep sand are slow, and she can feel herself running out of energy with every tug. She can’t stand, her ankle is broken, she’s almost positive. Worse yet, her right thigh is severely burned, the pants leg of her uniform melting into the angry, bubbling flesh. She tries not to look at it, because if she does, she’ll puke again, and she doesn’t have time for that. She needs to get them behind what remained of the truck, the only thing between them and the insurgents firing at them from just one hundred yards away. Bullets rip through the air around her as mortar rounds explode just out of range.

 

“Come on, Man. I can’t do this alone,” she begs him, shoving her face into her shoulder, trying to keep the thick, warm blood out of her eyes. She has a head laceration that had only deepened when she’d unbuckled herself in the overturned truck after the blast, and had fallen onto her face.

 

“Come on,” she gorans, but his face is terrifyingly still. Flames surround them and every intake of air feels like a knife to the chest and glass in her esophagus, but she latches onto his coat again anyways and tugs. She has no choice. She can sit here and think about how every breath makes her want to die and get both herself and Davis both killed, or she can do her best to get them to cover.

 

_“Just do your best, Lexa. That will always be enough. You are the strongest person I know. And I know you will do everything you can to do what’s right. Just do your best.”_

 

Her sister’s words before putting her on the bus to basic training ring in her ears, urging her to her knees. Her ankle gives a sharp twinge, making her gasp, but she ignores it, grabbing onto Davis’ belt this time, yanking him along behind her.

 

She’s gagging, practically hyperventilating by the time she gets them to the other side of the truck, but when she stops, she forces herself to suck in air. No more tears, no more panic, only action. Davis is awake now, but his eyes are glazed and his attention unfocused. She heaves him up against the side of the overturned truck, resting his weight on the snarled metal door.

 

“Hey, Davis,” she pants, snapping in his face. “Look at me. Hey.” She tears open his jacket and is immediately caught off guard by the gushing stream of blood soaking his torso. She stares at it, wide eyed and scared. Blood. So much blood. Her heart hammers so hard in her chest she thinks she might faint. An agonized groan from him snaps her back into focus.

 

“It’s okay,” she breathes. “It’s okay, we’re okay.” She yanks off her jacket, her eyes rolling back into her head and a scream ripping out of her before she muffles it behind clenched teeth. Tears stream down her face as she pants, short and shallow, so rapid her head spins. She looks down at the source of the excruciating pain, stomach roiling at the sight of the skin, or lack thereof, atop the right side of her ribs. Not having realized the fabric of her t-shirt and jacket had melted into her skin, a layer of charred flesh had ripped clean off when she’d removed her jacket, leaving the skin underneath an indistinguishable, gruesome mess.

 

Shaking, she grabs her jacket, retching at the sight of her skin still clinging to the inside of it. She takes her knife and cuts away the relatively clean half, wadding it up into a ball.

 

“Hey,” She whispers, crawling over to Davis. His head lolls to the side, his eyes flicking up to her slowly. She presses the wad of fabric into his bleeding wound, and places his hand over it.

 

“You’re okay.” She gives him a small, strained smile. “Keep pressure on this. It’s gonna be okay.”

 

A tear slides down his cheek and he groans when he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the teddy bear keychain. With effort, he holds it up to her in a hand shaking so violently he nearly drops it. He tries to speak, but it’s just blood that trickles out.

 

“No,” Lexa says firmly. She shakes her head with vehemence. “No, don’t you do that. Don’t you give up on me.”

 

“I’m not,” he whispers. “But I’m not-- I want my daughter--“

 

“Stop. We’re not doing this. Not now.” She grimaces against a wave of pain as she leans forward and wraps his fist around the tiny bear. “You hold onto that. She’s going to want it back when you get home, alright?” She licks her lips and steals a glance over top the truck, the gun fire having momentarily ceased. “They don’t know we’re alive, and they’re going to come and check any minute, which means I need a gun. I don’t know where my pistol went in the blast.”

 

“Trunk,” He groans. “Weapons locker.”

 

Lexa looks at the truck and, for a second, wants to laugh. She can hardly make sense of the sight in front of her, let alone identify the trunk.

 

Her best. She has to try her best.

 

“I’ll be right back. Do not close your eyes, you hear me?”

 

On his nod, she races on her hands and knees to the back of the truck, keeping her head down amongst the shower of bullets that had started back up, ricocheting off the other side of the truck.  In the only stroke of luck since the one that’d enabled her to survive the initial blast, she spots the weapons locker laying in the sand ten feet ahead. If she were lucky again, it would have a rifle in it. At the very least, there’d be a pistol. The only problem would be getting to it since it lay directly in the line of fire. She peers around the flames, ducking as sand erupts in little bursts around her.

 

“Fuck,” She hisses, ducking back behind cover. The headlights on the enemy vehicles aren’t strong, but the fire engulfing the truck was sure to light up her movements like target practice. And now that they knew someone was alive, they were sure to advance. She crouches, studying their firing pattern, counting the duration of the rounds before clips needed reloading.

 

It’s tight, but she can do it. She drops to her stomach, counting, waiting for the reload. They’re slow at it, untrained on the contraband weapons they wield with blind hatred. She waits--five seconds, ten, fifteen. On the momentary silence, she leaps up, sprinting for the long, metal box. She reaches it right as another round pops off, sending her to her stomach with a hand over her head. She could almost laugh. What was her hand going to do against an automatic rifle?

 

Staying as low as possible, she pulls a pocket knife from her pocket and jams the filer into the lock on the locker, ditching it, and flipping open the top. Her eyes well in relief at the sight of the two M16 rifles and a pistol settled alongside two full ammo boxes.

 

“Oh thank fuck,” she breathes, quickly removing the guns and sliding them underneath her arm. She takes the extra clips out of the ammo boxes and shoves them into her pockets.

 

Again, counting the seconds of fire, she waits for her window, body trembling from pain, fatigue and adrenaline. Ten, eleven, twelve--at fifteen, she jumps to her feet, yelping again at her ankle. Forcing herself forwards, she pivots and starts off at a limping sprint.

 

She’s nearly back to the truck when pain erupts in her shoulder. The force of the bullet tearing through her body is so strong, it spins her in place before slamming her to the ground. She gasps for air, her eyes blinking rapidly in surprise. Those motherfuckers had just shot her! She grits her teeth, growling like a feral animal in anger and pain when she brings her right hand up to touch the bullet wound in her left shoulder.

 

She slams her head back, breathing rapidly through her nose. She could do this. She _has_ to do this. If she doesn’t, their death--she clenches her eyes shut. She doesn’t want to think about them. Her friends. Her brothers. A tear slips down her cheeks. She hadn’t had a chance to mourn for them yet, and now isn’t the time either, but the pain at their loss lands like a boulder in her throat. Gutierrez’s face flashes in her mind. That dashing, goofy smile.

 

“Fuck you!” She screams at the night, pounding her fists into the ground. Her eyes fly open in furious determination. She can’t let them win. She pushes herself up and scoops the weapons under her arms, half running, half crawling back to Davis.

 

“Here,” she breathes, handing him the pistol.

 

“You’re hit,” he murmurs.

 

“Listen, I’m not going to engage until they move closer and I know I can hit them. I need you to watch my back, can you do that?”

 

Davis looks up at her with lidded eyes. He’s silent for so long she thinks maybe he hasn’t heard her, but then he nods and flicks off the safety.  

 

She pushes up against the truck, resting her weight off of her ankle as much as she can. She peers over at the enemy vehicles. Her heart races at the realization that they’d begun to move. She slides back down, eyes closing. This is not how she was going to go out. Not like this.

 

She gets low in a crouch, watching the vehicles approach. They stop about fifty yards away, engines idling. She can hear them shouting, but can’t make out any words. Two men hop out of the lead truck, one carrying a machine gun, the other carrying the RPG that had likely killed her friends.

 

She growls under her breath and raises her rifle, training it on him. She holds, waiting, watching. She won’t shoot unless she has to. They stop twenty yards away, surveying the wreckage. There’s errant flames and bits of metal everywhere, and she seethes as she watches them shove at things with their feet.

 

When one of those things audibly groans, everything in Lexa’s body goes icey cold. Someone from her unit was alive. Gutierrez, Williams, maybe Philips or the kid driving. Horror clogs her throat as one of the insurgents raises his gun and points it at the downed soldier. She raises her weapon, focusing again. She has three seconds, maybe five.  Her hands shake, her chest heaves. What the fuck was a pacifist doing in the United States Army? They killed her friends, and still, Lexa’s finger trembled in conflict atop the trigger.

 

The insurgent kicks the body, the two of them erupting in laughter at the pained groan that followed. He raises his weapon once more, aiming at the head.

 

There was no choice. She had to engage.

 

Screaming with all the anger, pain, and hatred she felt in that moment, Lexa opens fire, spraying above the still burning frame of the truck she took cover behind. Automatic fire pelts the air as the insurgents in the truck open up in retaliatory fire. Lexa fires and reloads like a machine, pointing, firing, pointing, firing.

 

She barely registers their panicked shouts, shooting until they finally retreated into their truck and backed out of range. She stops, body trembling until she’s forced to drop behind the truck, shoulder to shoulder with Davis, her head tilted back. She only has a second to breathe before she remembers the soldier, one of her friends, still lying in the dirt.

 

She tugs herself back up, dodging as a single gunshot screamed past her head. She waits, listening for more fire. When it doesn’t come, she runs.

 

“Oh my god,” she gasps when she slides in next to the soldier, practically throwing herself on top of him when a mortar explodes just to their right. Shrapnel spews in every direction, lodging itself into her arm, but she barely registers it. “Phillips. Hey, look at me. Look at me.”

 

He blinks up at her through the thick layer of bloody soot covering his face. “Stump,” he gasps, coughing blood.

 

“Hey man,” she laughs through her tears and runs her hand over his forehead.

 

“You came.”

 

“Of course. Of course I did. You’re my brother.”

 

“I don’t want to die, Stump,” he says, his voice cracking into a sob. “I don’t want to die. Not here.”  

 

“No,” she says, voice thick with tears, “I’m going to get you home.”  Another mortar round explodes just in front of them. She slides off of him and starts to tug.

 

“Stump,” he moans in agony.

 

“It’s okay. It’s okay, just breathe.”

 

She tugs him across the dirt, miraculously missing the bullets sprayed at her, until she has him leaned up against the truck next to Davis. She takes the pistol from Darvis, checking his pulse. Faint, but there.  The gunshots are getting closer and she knows the insurgents are on the move again. She stands to measure their distance, only to be shot at, and ducks back down again. She checks her clip. She’s got about one round left, one clip in the other rifle, and one clip in her pocket. She takes the clip out of the other rifle and puts it in her pocket too.

 

“Woods--” a voice so soft, so weak she almost misses it calls from behind her. She whirls around so fast she sways for a moment. “Woods--” it calls again, louder.

 

She ducks down, looking behind Davis into the wreckage. A hand reaches for her from the front.

 

“Holy shit,” she gasps, throwing herself into the metal frame. She shimmies forward, squeezing herself beneath the collapsed dashboard. “Wescott!”

 

“I can’t move.”

 

“Hang on.” She grabs her pocket knife and flips the blade open, sawing at the seatbelt. She peers past his body to look out the shattered window. The insurgents were advancing, this time in a group of five trucks. She saws faster, ripping the chest strap away, then the lap restraint. “What hurts?”

 

“Everything,” he says with a pained chuckle.

 

“Oh, is that all? I can work with that.” She slides her arm under his legs and tugs, pulling him free from the seat. She doesn’t like the way his body sinks into hers, limp and heavy, his back likely broken. She doesn’t have time to dwell. She shimmies him out of the truck, laying him next to her small, but still breathing team.

 

“I’ve got five insurgents advancing from the front,” she whispers, her gun trained on them. There’s nothing they can really do for her, but it helps to talk to them. “Fourty yards. Thirty.” She counts down, her voice cracking in anxiety. “Twenty yards. Fuck, they’re coming in fast. Fuck--”

 

One of the insurgents shouts and Lexa has just enough time to throw herself over the three men when an RPG blast ignites whatever was left of the lead truck, obliterating it with her friends inside. She cringes and twitches as debris flies over her, catching her head and back several times.

 

When it goes quiet, Lexa lays there, panting against the bodies beneath her. Disoriented and mostly deaf, she pushes herself up only to find the world completely tilted and spinning around her. Her vision blurs, darkness flicking in and out at the edgers of her distorted perception. The ringing in her ears is excruciating, but not enough to drown out the foreign shouts of the insurgents closing in on her.

 

She sees them round the truck in slow motion, all armed, all aiming for her. With the energy of a last hurrah, Lexa tugs her rifle from underneath her and pulls the trigger, spraying in a relentless arc around her. She doesn’t stop, not even when an enemy bullet tears through her stomach, momentarily knocking the wind out of her. When her weapon clicks, she grabs the extra clip out of her pocket, covered by the insurgents’ momentary confusion at her counter attack, and slams it into place, opening fire again until that too goes empty. She does this until her last clip is gone and everything around her is silent, the dirt covered in bodies. She sways, the world still spinning. Shadows from her left draws her attention, and she just has enough time to grab her pistol out of her waistband.

 

She can hear someone screaming, but it’s not until all the bodies have dropped that she realizes the screaming had been hers. She falls to the side, landing on her back, hand clutching at the bullet wound in her side. It hardly hurts. Not really. She’s just cold. So very cold.

  
“Stump,” Phillips groans, his hand reaching out to grab hers.

 

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s okay.”

 

“Love you, Stump.”

 

  
She closes her eyes and lets the tears fall. They’re warm on her face. So much warmer than the rest of her feels. Shuffling in the sand behind them has her bolting upright. Puking promptly at the motion, she scrambles for her rifle as she coughs up bile. The clip is empty. She digs in her pockets frantically, but they’re empty too. Her pistol lay empty by her side. Scrambling around, she desperately searches for a weapon on one of the insurgents, but they’re too far away.

 

She can hear him crouching along the nose of the burnt-out truck, just feet away from rounding on her and her men.

 

“Don’t breathe,” she whispers, barely audible. Imperceptibly, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her pocket knife, sliding open the blade. She lays back slowly, silently, closing her eyes but for a sliver to see out of. The man rounds the truck, creeping towards them, his gun raised. He barks something at her, at her men beside her, but nobody moves.

 

Slowly, he lowers his gun, studying the scene. Lexa holds her breath. They just needed one more stroke of luck. One that would send the enemy on its way, convinced of a job completed. A gasp from beside her, accidental, not to be helped and born out of agony, has the insurgent whipping around. He’s fast, but not fast enough. Before he can get a shot off, Lexa lunges at him, taking hip down with her shoulder driven into his waist.

 

Her lungs ache when they hit the ground, but she ignores it, shoving her forearm into the man’s throat. He’s bigger than her, and uninjured. He quickly bucks her off, but Lexa is quick and she swings around, slamming her foot into the back of his knee. He drops, grasping and clawing at her when Lexa puts him in a choke hold, squeezing until her arms shake.

 

A shot goes off and Lexa jerks in shock, but maintains her grip. She looks down at the red blossom blooming across her stomach from where he had reached around and shot her. Her muscles go lax and she’s shoved to the ground, the man dropping on top of her, legs straddling her hips. He spits in her face, staring down at her with eyes like steel. Lexa stares back, wondering how the world had gotten to this place of hate. Genuinely sorry for whatever had happened to this man to turn him into what he was. Sorry that the world is at war. Sorry for killing so many.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and lurches up, plunging her knife into his carotid artery.  He slumps forward onto her, his weight pinning her to the ground. She shove him off, chest heaving at the effort. The adrenaline is wearing off, and Lexa can feel every laceration, burn and gunshot wound. The pain is unimaginable, but the exhaustion is worse. She wants to close her eyes, wants so badly to go to sleep. She forces herself onto her stomach and claws at the sand, dragging her limp, broken body back towards her men.

 

Davis is unconscious, Wescott too, but they both have a pulse. She crawls over to Phillips, smiling as best she can when he looks over at her. He shakes so violently, she can barely get her hands on him, but when she does, she cups his face, brushing her thumb over his cheek.

 

“You’re okay,” she whispers, blinking back tears. “You’re okay.”

 

He stares at her, eyes wide and terrified. He’s long past speaking now, his body throwing all energy reserves at the need to bring air into his lungs. It wouldn’t be long now before even that stopped. Shaking and fading from her own injuries, Lexa draws him into her lap, cradling him against her stomach. She starts to rock, too many tears now to let them do anything but fall.

 

The winds howls around them biting into exposed flesh. The sky is so dark, Lexa can see every star in the sky. Hundreds of them. Thousands. She smiles at a memory, not so different from this one--she and Phillips lying in the sand outside the recreation center on her first deployment, making up ridiculous names for the shapes they found in the stars. They had been deployed together for all three of Lexa’s tours, often teasing each other that they were Army soulmates, never going where the other couldn’t follow.

 

“Do you remember what you said to me that night when we were fucking around, naming the stars?” She asks, her voice cracking. “You said when you get home, you’re gonna go be a firefighter so you can still be the hot guy in a uniform.” She laughs. "You remember?" He doesn’t respond, just stares at her, scared eyes boring into her. “I told you the Army uniform was the only uniform I’d ever wear, and girls would just have to dig it. You called me a wannabe Jarhead. I told you’d I’d rather die than be a Marine. Army for life.”

 

“You--sang--” he gasps in a broken whisper.

 

“Yeah, I did,” she whispers, chuckling. She had sang so loud, boys from the barracks halfway across base had shouted at her to shut the fuck up. A CO had come out to tell her that while he appreciated her dedication and loyalty to the Army, she needed to promptly shut her big ass pie hole.

 

"And you just started to sing right along with me." She stares down at him, brushing his hair out of his face. “You’re gonna be okay, you hear me?”

 

When he doesn’t answer, she looks up at the sky, straining to listen for a helicopter. The stars simply sparkled back at her, even the rising smoke doing nothing to deter them. She turns to look at the vehicles, and it hits her. She could hardly see the smoke, the night sky is so dark. She couldn’t see it, and neither could anyone else.

 

They’re alone out here.

 

She starts to rock, looking back down at her her friend, her brother.

 

“ _March along_ ,” she begins in whispered song, “ _sing our song, with the Army of the free._ ” Her voice cracks and her body gives way to a violent tremble. She tugs him closer, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. “ _Count the brave, count the true, who have fought to victory. We’re the Army and proud of our name. We’re the Army and proudly proclaim._ ”

 

He stares up at her, clinging to the sound of her voice, his fist clasped weakly around her shirt. She smiles, sniffing back tears. “It’s okay, James,” she whispers, her eyes beginning to flutter. “It’s okay.”

 

His grip on her shirt starts to fall, the color draining from his face.

 

“ _First to fight for the right, and to build the Nation’s might, and the army goes rolling along,”_ she sings, barely able to say the words through her tears and the sleep tugging at her body. When he closes his eyes, she pulls him ever closer. “ _Proud of all we have done--”_ she gasps and sinks back against the truck, “ _fighting til the battle’s won,”_ she murmurs, _“and the Army...goes rolling...along.”_

 

She closes her eyes, the world goes dark, and finally, _finally,_ the pain is gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Polis | 2017

 

_Armed with two standard issue rifles and a standard issue pistol, Sergeant Woods ultimately took down over thirty rebel insurgents while sustaining several gunshot wounds and severe burns. Her heroics saved the lives of two soldiers that day, keeping them alive until medics from the Navy Medical Corps were able to extract them. By her undaunted courage and devotion to duty, Sergeant Woods reflected great credit upon herself, and upheld the highest traditions of the United States Military. Upon medical retirement with the highest honors, the United States Army promoted her from Specialist to Sergeant, reflecting the years she gave to the Army over three deployments. The United States Military thanks Sergeant Woods for her unwavering gallantry and unyielding commitment to fighting for Freedom._

  



End file.
